


Adagio

by edken



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ballet!Lock AU, Boyfriends, Bullying, First Date, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Slow Build, basically everything, cliche romance, hurt/comfrot, rugby!john, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edken/pseuds/edken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock does ballet, John plays rugby. Neither of them want to feel alone anymore, and then they aren't.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for abandoning a fic that had such a large following. I never meant to let people down, but if I'm being honest, Sherlock let _me_ down in a huge way. The fourth season took everything I enjoyed out of the show, which made it impossible to keep writing. Even though I stopping updating this fic long before S4 aired, I took a break from it from personal reasons, and by the time I felt ready to pick it back up I just couldn't bring myself to care. I've entirely left the fandom at this point. I can't even enjoy earlier content anymore, knowing how it all ends up. Even fan-made content (including my own) just became tiring. 
> 
> To everyone who loved and supported my work, I can't thank you enough. Sorry for disappearing. I'm leaving this fic up as it is just in case anyone wants to enjoy in in it's incomplete glory. ♥ I guess I just felt strange never addressing my reasoning for discontinuing something so many people genuinely appreciated. I know I'm late, but it's helpful to me. Hopefully someone sees it, at any rate.

Sweat began to bead in Sherlock’s hairline as he practiced the same routine for the thirteenth time that day. His thighs shook, his ankles trembled. He could feel his toes begin to burn and weaken as he pointed them, pounding them however gracefully into the hardwood over and over again. He didn’t care. Pain could be deleted so long as he perfected this. _Plié, relevé, ronde de jambe…_

Freeze.

Sherlock’s ankle and shin were a perfect perpendicular line to the floor, ending at the point of his toe encased in rose colored slippers. The other leg was poised up in the air, bent at the knee and hovering in perfect balance. One arm above his head, the other outstretched along with his leg, fingers gracefully spread out into the air. It wasn’t hard to stay poised and still as he strained his ears, trying to pick up on the noise he’d heard behind him moments ago.

There it was again. The shuffle of clothing, the strap of an athletic bag being repositioned on a shoulder, a nervous scuffle of feet. Sherlock sighed, and lowered his arms dramatically to hang by his sides, back still facing the door and legs staying frozen in their position.

“I signed the studio out.” he snapped in irritation. He carefully lowered himself down onto one flat foot. “This is a dance studio. Not an extension of the gym, so go do your stretches outside or in there where you belong.”

The sport player- most likely rugby, considering the season and the time of day- cleared his throat and shuffled his feet again. “Erm, yeah. Sorry.”

Immediately, Sherlock’s other leg lowered in a graceful arc and he spun in a fluid semi circle, settling into first position to finally face the door. The voice had been unfamiliar, and as he turned Sherlock found himself looking into the dark blue eyes of a stranger. This was unexpected, since he had become personally acquainted to each and every member of the rugby team the previous year, for lack of a better term. 

The boy was clad in a rugby jersey, colored maroon and gold for the school colors. Matching maroon shorts revealed tan, muscled legs. Regular player, obviously, but not for this team. New student, then. Received a spot on the team because of two- no, three years of prior experience. He must be very good, to get onto the team this quickly. His hair was a shade lighter than his skin, blonde and sitting in an uncombed mess on his head. 

It was impossible not to notice the hand-me-down duffel bag, and the scuffed up rugby cleats that were a size too small. There was no way his family was paying his tuition if they couldn’t even afford a decent pair of trainers. Here on scholarship, then. So he was at the very least of _decent_ intelligence.

Sherlock waved the overflow of new information off, and settled on one solid conclusion: _He’s interesting. At least, more interesting than most of the idiots here._

This realization threw Sherlock off, and he blinked a few times before regaining his composure, even if his cheeks were a bit more pink than they were before. He at least managed to narrow his eyes at the boy in the doorway, and crossed his arms over his chest, arms pale in comparison to the tight black tank top. Instead of asking the obvious question _(Who are you?)_ , Sherlock asked warily, “Why are you here?” 

A few moments of silence stretched between them, and Sherlock was suddenly all too aware of the London Symphony Orchestra tape still playing loudly from the corner, filling the empty space before the boy’s response with high violin notes and tinkering piano keys. He resisted the strange impulse to lunge for the stereo and turn it off. However, he kept his shoulders square, eyes cold, waiting for the boy to say something. _Just say something, you idiot..._

And finally, he did. Just in time for his own cheeks to begin turning light pink. “Yes, well…” he jerked a thumb behind him, “Locker rooms are that way. Only way out is past the studio, so…” he offered Sherlock a shrug with the shoulder not weighed down by an athletic bag, finally pairing it with a lopsided grin.

It was absurd that Sherlock found an asymmetrical curve of the boy’s lips so endearing.

He didn’t let on, though. Sherlock simply arched an eyebrow and said softly, “Yes, but you were _watching_.” 

The boy’s cheeks turned violently crimson at that. He quickly stammered, “Yes. I mean- er, I better go I suppose.” The blush had risen from his cheeks up to his hairline now, and Sherlock watched, fascinated as the boy’s hands clasped together nervously in front of him. The goofy grin had faded into an awkward slant as the boy bit his lip and turned to leave. His voice called back once he was already out of sight, sounding slightly strangled. 

“See you around.”

Bewildered, Sherlock turned to the stereo to start the track over again. It would be impossible to remember his place after being so thoroughly distracted by rugby shorts, and slate blue eyes, and a pink flush rising in tan cheeks…

 _Must not think too much of it,_ Sherlock told himself as the first tentative notes streaked through the air. 

Sherlock shut his eyes and exhaled, letting his mind settle back into gentle stagnation. He never needed to _think_ while he danced. It was blissful. His arms floated up effortlessly, poised in perfectly symmetrical arches out in front of his torso. 

Sharp inhale through the nose, flex and _piqué, arabesque, jeté…_

Sherlock leaped through the air, dust swirling around him like a trail of stardust in the afternoon light, reflecting off the mirrors and bounding around the room. He was airborne, legs spread like wings before coming together in time to catch him, landing on perfectly pointed toes. His weight swayed to the right, arms following behind as if caught by grand gusts of wind, then dipping down until his knuckles nearly grazed the floor. His back arched, body turning into sharp planes and angles partnered with the soft curve of muscle, propelling him forward once more into a grand allegro, falling back to the the floor without so much as a stumble. 

Again, and again he went through each move with equal parts precision and elegance. Applying all his knowledge of physics, numbers, and formulas to make his body arch and _bourrée en couru_ across the floorboards, growing dim with the fast fading light. Ballet was science, and oh how Sherlock loved science.

And oh, how Sherlock loved to _dance._

He even managed to complete his last practice of the routine, despite the fact that rugby practice ended and a sandy head of hair lingered just a second too long in the doorway on the way to the locker rooms. Sherlock smirked through his last grand allegro, freezing half way through a bow and meeting a dark blue gaze and a lopsided smile from across the room. Sherlock decided that was a satisfying enough way to end his practice, and sat down to begin unlacing his slippers just as a hand-me-down bag disappeared around the corner.

***

 

It was nearly a week later when Sherlock saw the boy again.

Angry colored clouds swirled overhead, promising a downpour at any moment. Of course, Sherlock never expected much else from England. The silver skies were familiar to him, after living here his entire life. The air had a sharper edge of cold to it, hinting at summer coming to an end and Sherlock breathed it in, the scent of rain and forthcoming winter commonplace in his nostrils. 

With his belstaff coat wrapped tightly around him, all buttons done up except his collar which was turned up against the wind, he set off for his first class. The maths building was across campus, of course, so Sherlock held his trigonometry textbook to his chest and watched his feet, carefully avoiding puddles on his way over. 

He was nearly halfway across a rather large stretch of lawn when Sherlock heard a familiar voice call out, some distance behind him.

“Oi, pofter!” 

Sherlock said nothing in response, simply rolling his eyes and continuing to walk at a brisk pace. He listened carefully to the group following behind, and was able to pick up four distinctly different sets of footfalls, judging by the gait and space between their slippery steps on the grass. Four sets of feet, but only three voices laughing.

Interesting.

“Holmes, I’m talking to you.” The same voice spoke up, however having lost the faux playfulness. Sherlock grimaced at the tone, but still remained silent. The laughter had stopped, allowing an unsettling silence to come from the group of tormentors as they sped up on Sherlock’s heels. He found it rather difficult to resist sprinting away from them as fast as he could.

He wouldn’t be able to outrun them. He’d learned that the hard way, so Sherlock just kept up his steady pace and consistent silence, waiting for-

A heavy hand came down hard on Sherlock’s shoulder, wrenching him around so suddenly that the textbook he had been carrying flew from his arms, landing on the damp ground. Sherlock gritted his teeth, but knew better than to bend down and try to pick it back up with a large hand still holding onto his shoulder. 

Especially since the hand belonged to Sebastian Wilkes.

“It’s rude to ignore people, Sherly.” He said with a slimy grin that made Sherlock feel as though he needed a good wash.

“Oh?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not breaking eye contact with Sebastian as his gaze hardened, “And is it _not_ rude to throw my books on the ground and make me late for class?” His voice was frigid, eyes sparking with intensity as he glared. 

Sebastian’s lip curled. “S’not my fault you’re clumsy, Sherly. I didn’t _throw_ anything.”

“Don’t call me Sherly.” He snapped through gritted teeth, clenching useless fists at his sides. Laughter erupted from the boys around him, and Sherlock shifted his gaze to fix each one with their own glare. Anderson, Victor, and then-

Sherlock’s heart stuttered when he met a pair of stormy blue eyes. Eyes he’d found himself thinking about quite often. The same eyes, the same messy blonde hair, even the same blush tinting the boy’s tan cheeks that he’d seen the week before. Sherlock’s glare lost it’s conviction, softening into disappointment, even if the boy wasn’t laughing. Even if he quickly broke eye contact to stare at the ground, slipping his hands into his pockets and biting his bottom lip. 

Perhaps he wasn’t so interesting after all. 

Sherlock forced his eyes back onto Sebastian with some difficulty, trying his best to slip an annoyed mask back over his features. The last thing any of them needed was to pick up on the hurt building in Sherlock’s chest, causing each breath to feel cold and tight.

“Well? Are you going to hit me?” Sherlock asked casually.

Sebastian sneered, and in his peripheral vision Sherlock saw the blonde boy snap his head back up, looking alarmed.

“Not today, Sherls.” Instead, he released Sherlock’s shoulder with a violent shove, causing him to stumble backward several steps. His trigonometry textbook lay conveniently in his backward path, successfully tripping him, much to Sebastian and his follower’s delight. Sherlock fell onto his back and instantly felt the damp grass soaking through his clothes.

“Aren’t ballerinas supposed to be graceful?” Sebastian spluttered through his laughter.

“Yeah, where are your slippers now, Holmes?” Anderson sneered.

However, Sherlock wasn’t looking at them. He wiped a bit of sprayed mud off the side of his face and looked up at the blonde boy. His eyes were blown wide, expression guilty, mouth gaping as if he was about to say something but decided against it. His eyebrows arched in the middle, and he clasped his hands in front of him, the same nervous habit Sherlock had already seen once before.

Suddenly, Sherlock realized he’d made a grave mistake in assuming this boy was, or ever would be different. He didn’t even know his name, and he’d allowed himself to become captivated. Infatuated by the unique color of his eyes, and the odd way he walked, and that little smirk he’d offered before disappearing around the corner of the locker room…

_Pathetic._

Sherlock could see it now. He could see where he had miscalculated as the boy shut his mouth and remained silent, lowing his eyes down to his feet. Sherlock simply shook his head, not sure who he was more disappointed in, himself or this infuriating boy who had somehow caught his attention. 

_I’ll be sure not to make that mistake again,_ Sherlock thought to himself before he tore his eyes from the boy to look up at Sebastian, who towered over him. Sherlock’s voice was even, but resigned as he asked, “Are you quite done?”

With a voice still shaky from laughter, he replied, “Yeah, yeah. Now get to class, Sherly. You’re going to be late.” Sherlock locked his jaw as the boys turned to leave, each one giving Sherlock’s book a muddy kick before turning their backs.

Sebastian, Anderson, and Victor walked in the other direction, slapping each other on the back and having a good laugh. However, the blonde boy stood still, as if frozen in place. He was still staring at the ground with the same concerned expression, but he’d stopped shuffling his feet.

Sherlock snapped his eyes onto him, bright and angry. “Well?” He snapped, his voice warped by hurt and humiliation. “Go on then.” He nodded in the direction of the three other boys, causing a few of his curls to flop over one eye. He didn’t even bother fixing it and added, “Your _friends_ are waiting.”

This seemed to snap the boy out of his paralysis, and he brought his head back up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. As if on cue, there was immediately a distant shout from Sebastian. 

“John! What’re you doing? C’mon!”

_John._

So that was his name.

For some reason, knowing it only made Sherlock’s stomach ache more. _John._ Such an ordinary name, Sherlock should have seen it coming. He was just like everyone else. Of course he’d have a name like _John._

But instead of simply turning to go and follow his friends, John didn’t move. His eyes barely flickered in their direction before coming back to rest on Sherlock’s face again. Without warning, he took a few steps forward; toward where Sherlock was still half-lying half-sitting on the muddy ground.

Instinctively, Sherlock flinched. He couldn’t even help the way his legs curled up a bit defensively. He shut his eyes and raised one arm before he could stop himself, mind reeling.

“Oh god- no! I’m not going to…” Sherlock’s eyes opened again to see John, eyebrows once again arched in concern, kind eyes swimming with empathy. However Sherlock didn’t move from his defensive position as John finished his sentence, sounding determined but sad, “I’m not going to hurt you. C’mon.”

And then John did something so extraordinary, so surprising that Sherlock hardly knew what to do. Conflicting thoughts crashed into one another, his whole mind screeching to a stop to avoid a collision. Sparks flew as his brain short circuited, trying to make sense of what was in front of him.

A hand. John’s hand, offering to help him up.

Sherlock tried desperately to reconnect the broken wires in his mind. He simply stared at the hand, eyes roamed over the tan, calloused fingers outstretched toward him. He blinked rapidly, furrowed his brow, tried and failed to make sense of it.

All the while John stared down expectantly, even wiggled his fingers in encouragement. Sherlock raised wide eyes up to meet John’s, who was wearing a shy smile. A warm sensation pooled in Sherlock’s chest at that, and he raised a hand to grab onto John’s. His wet, muddy fingertips nearly touched John’s when he abruptly recoiled.

All at once, Sherlock was reminded of the feeling of seeing John with _them._ The boys that had made his life a living hell. The boys who had made Sherlock go from carrying his slippers in his hands proudly to having to hide them deep in his bag to avoid getting slammed into the lockers. The boys who had stepped on his toes so hard he had to take weeks off from ballet practice, calling him twinkle toes. The boys who had made him ashamed of the only thing that made him happy, the only thing that made him forget he was a disappointment to his family, and a freak to the rest of the world. The one thing that let him fly… and seeing John with the boys who had tethered him to the ground was like being doused in ice water. Just one more person to remind him he was a _freak._

A person he’d been foolish enough to believe might not be a waste of time.

 

And Sherlock _loathed_ being wrong.

He snapped his hand away, breath catching in his throat as he looked up at John with wide eyes. “No.” Sherlock shook his head, pushing himself backwards clumsily, not caring about the mud smearing on his already ruined jeans.

“Sherlock-” 

He picked up his book and stumbled hastily to his feet, feeling choked. “Get away from me.” he said weakly, hugging the ruined textbook to his chest. 

“I was only-”

“I mean it!” Sherlock snarled, straightening himself out and backing a few more steps away. He fixed John with a look that was partly white hot anger, but also pleading. His voice was much more quiet when he added, “Just leave me alone.”

John lowered the outstretched hand from where it was still hovering in mid air, looking as if Sherlock had just slapped him in the face as hard as he could. John nodded, tan skin losing a bit of it’s color as the blood drained from his face. Pity was replaced by shame as he held his hands up to Sherlock in surrender. “Alright.” He said gently, looking once more at the ground.

Sherlock lingered for a moment, staring John up and down before turning on his heel and rushing in the opposite direction. He was nearly out of earshot when he heard it. The voice was so quiet that Sherlock could have imagined it, be he knew he didn’t.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s insides curled uncomfortably as a very brief urge to turn around flashed through his mind. Instead he just kept walking, head bowed against the rain drops which had just started to fall, arms wrapped tight around himself and the thick, soaked book in his arms. He focused on trying to regain control of his failing lungs and clear the mysterious lump in his throat until he reached the maths building, about 15 minutes late now.

 _Must not think too much of it,_ he reminded himself once again. 

_Must not think too much of **him**. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Disappointed in me?"  
> "Yes."  
> "Why?"  
> "Because I thought you were different."  
> "Different from who?"  
> "...Everyone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This chapter is much longer than the first, and it's from John's point of view! Hopefully you like it just as much ^_^ I'm a bit nervous about it... so leave reviews if you have a moment. I love feedback, and it motivates me to write more :) The next chapter is currently being written, and I hope to have it up within the next couple of days. Thanks for reading!♥

John lingered in the door of the dance studio before every rugby practice. And every time he was only greeted by vacant floorboards, decorated by gridded sunlight pouring in from the windows. The mirrors were empty, infinitely reflecting each other with no tall, muscular body in black tights to interrupt the continuum. Even the dust was stagnant, as if the room had long since been abandoned.

John knew that wasn’t true, though, because one day he heard classical music floating into the hallway, and there was a bag overflowing with ankle wraps sitting outside the door. But when John looked into the room he didn’t find any ebony curls, or pale arms risen into the air. It was deserted, but John was sure that as soon as he was gone into the locker room Sherlock would be back, dancing to the slow tune that followed John all the way to the showers.

His stomach twisted painfully with guilt each time he remembered Sherlock’s eyes, widening with sudden alarm and scrambling away from him across the ground, looking for all he was worth like an abused animal. 

And yet, John’s stomach twisted in an entirely different way when he remembered Sherlock’s eyes, skin around them crinkling as he smirked in afternoon sunlight, looking up from his bow to an empty room. Empty except for John in the doorway, Sherlock’s lone audience. The very first time he'd seem him. John’s heart hammered whenever he remembered Sherlock’s body, flowing with ease around the room, black tights and tight tank top hugging his torso beautifully, so John could see each muscle ripple and flex as Sherlock leapt and _flew_ across the floor.

Either way, the thought of Sherlock caused John to have a mild heart attack.

Or what he thought one must feel like, anyway. 

And more often than not, this happened while he was lying in bed at night, or in the shower, and memories would start to blend with fantasies. Sherlock’s white knuckled hands grasping onto the bars of the studio, John’s fingers hooking into the waistband of those tights while he kissed down Sherlock’s neck, reaching his prominent collar bone, scraping teeth against skin and Sherlock would moan beneath him as tights pooled at his ankles, still wrapped in rose colored ribbon. And John would wrap an arm around one of Sherlock’s endless legs, effortlessly bringing it up to rest on his own shoulder, knee hooking to allow Sherlock’s heel to dig into John’s back as he gasped, and John would use his free hand to undo his own trousers, freeing his-

He snapped his eyes open, wild fantasies running away from his vision and replaced with the dirty, tiled walls of the locker room shower. He finished his wank trying desperately to picture girls, with soft curves and prefects breasts and red lips, but somehow they always ended up wearing leotards and slippers, and by the time John reached his orgasm with a muted gasp he was back to imagining the sharp, angular body of Sherlock, whispering _“That’s it, John…”_ into his ear with that deep, velvety-

“John!” A voice shouted from behind the shower curtain, and John jumped so violently he nearly slipped and fell to the floor, “Hurry up, would you?”

“Y-yeah, sorry. Be out in a moment.” 

He rinsed the soap and semen from his hands, watching it swirl down the drain as his heart rate returned to normal. He switched the shower off, wrapped a towel around his waist and went to get his jeans and favorite forest-green jumper from his bag, slipping the warm material over his slightly damp body happily. 

Only a few of his teammates lingered around the room, not paying any mind to him as he made his exit. It had been a rough practice, and John could already feel the way his muscles would ache in the morning. He groaned as he slung his bag over his shoulder and left, craving the feeling of sinking into bed and never getting out.

However, those plans were thwarted when he walked past the dance studio and saw a slender body leaning against one of the barres, outside leg high in the air and held there by Sherlock’s hand, wrapped around the ankle.

All thoughts of sleep and aching muscles were instantly forgotten.

John froze in the doorway and blinked, briefly doubting his sanity since he hadn’t seen that head of curls in nearly two weeks. And once he realized he was not, in fact, hallucinating due to prolonged exposure to sexual fantasies, John had another one of his mini heart attacks.

He stood there for far too long, opening his mouth at least three times and deciding against all three options of greeting that came to mind. _“Hello,” “Hi,”_ and _“I just had a wank in the shower to the thought of fucking you, in the exactly spot you're standing right now.”_

John swallowed nervously and felt a blush rising in his cheeks, which only got worse when Sherlock suddenly spoke.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me, or do you plan on actually speaking?”

John wondered fleetingly if Sherlock had eyes on the back of his head. He stared at the planes of Sherlock’s back, muscles taut and tensed as he stood perfectly balanced. Finally, with a sobering shake of his head, John decided on one of his three original options of greeting, although his voice was shakier than he would have liked. 

“Um. Hi, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s leg swung downward, graceful as the wing of a bird as he used the momentum to spin 180 degrees to face John. Who wondered, not for the first time, if he should be worried about the way his heart stopped and started again. Sherlock’s pale skin was flushed from dancing, his exposed chest rosy, and the color crept up his neck and into his cheeks. His hair was unruly, and John could imagine the way it would fan out as Sherlock spun and spun around on pointed toes.

“John. What a pleasure.” Sherlock’s voice was cold, his eyes narrowed.

“Sarcasm.” John observed quietly with a nod. He took a step into the room and looked around as if he’d never seen it before, a pathetic attempt to avoid eye contact. Eventually his eyes circled back onto Sherlock and he added a praising, “Nice,” offering a shy smile.

Sherlock leaned back against the barre on his elbows casually, but said nothing. He looked John up and down, eyes scanning rapidly as if there was a computer screen in front of them, his expression calculating. It was a bit disconcerting, paired with the way his irises had turned silver in the dimming light. John stayed silent, afraid to shatter whatever thoughts were surely whipping through the the boy’s head. He hadn’t shouted for John to get out yet, and he considered that a success.

So far, anyway.

The silence grew heavy as Sherlock’s eyes continued their journey down, and John blushed once more as Sherlock’s gaze lingered around his hips, only a second too long, but John noticed anyway. Then they continued downward, all the way to his feet. John very nearly jumped as, a moment later, Sherlock’s eyes suddenly snapped back up to meet his. There was definitely no imaginary computer screen separating them now. His gaze was intense. Focused. John did his best to return it but he knew that anyone could probably see the red in his cheeks from space.

“You’ve gone all pink.” Sherlock declared, as it that was a perfectly normal thing to say. His fierce expression melted away and his brows drew together, looking genuinely curious.

John stammered helplessly, pink turning to crimson. “I- it’s just- you.” He stopped his useless stammering and took a breath before mumbling, “I blush easily.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock replied, the wrinkle between his brows ironing out. “It’s caused by adrenaline, you know.”

John blinked, wondering if he’d heard that properly. “Sorry?”

“Blushing. It’s caused by adrenaline.” Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall of mirrors and took a small step forward. “When you’re embarrassed, or guilty, or perhaps feeling out of your depth-” He took another muffled step, expression hardening, pronouncing each syllable sharply, “Blood rises, heart rate quickens,” Another step forward. John swallowed nervously, forcing himself to stay rooted to the spot, to keep his eyes from dropping to the ground. “Fight or flight response.” Sherlock went on, “It’s involuntary. _Human nature._ ” One more step, and Sherlock froze.

He was well within John’s personal space now, so John had to actually look up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. 

“So what is it, John?” he asked when John said nothing, “Are you embarrassed? Guilty? There must be a reason for blood dilation. There’s always a cause and effect.” Sherlock tilted his head, clearly expecting an answer.

The problem was, John seemed to be having trouble breathing at the moment.

Sherlock smirked, and John seriously doubted his lungs would ever work properly again (or his heart for that matter) as amusement shimmered just behind Sherlock’s eyes. Teasingly, he let John out of his misery and simply said, “Or perhaps you just blush easily.” He turned and walked away at that, smirk still in place.

Once Sherlock was a few feet away John let out a breath, and wondered if this was what whiplash felt like. The last time he’d seen Sherlock he was scrambling to get away, demanding to be left alone and looking as though he was expecting John to pummel him into the ground. And now he was crowding into John’s personal space, talking to him with a voice like sex, smirking and undressing him with those bloody what-color-are-they-anyway eyes?

John had a strange feeling that Sherlock Holmes was made up of nothing but mixed signals.

The boy had sat on the floor, legs crossed, leaving John to suffocate a few feet away. He began to undo his slippers silently as if John wasn't there, before sighing without looking up and saying, “Alright, you’ve got questions.”

Yes, John did, but he still seemed to be having difficulty breathing. And thinking. He forced himself to take a breath, lungs filling to full capacity, letting it out in a long exhale before replying, “Yes, I do. What happened to avoiding me? And hating me?”

John winced. That sounded much less pathetic in his head.

“I do not _hate_ you, don’t be dull. And I was never _avoiding_ you.” Sherlock had stopped the removal of his slippers, but his head was still bowed and he spoke down to his feet rather than to John. “I was disappointed. And the fact that I wasn’t here on the days of your rugby practice was a coincidence.”

“No, it wasn’t.” John dared to say. 

Sherlock’s head lurched up, and he gave John an appraising look before nodding his head solemnly. “No, it wasn’t,” he agreed after a moment, and lowered his head again to look to his left foot, beginning to remove the slipper slowly when he hissed in pain. John tensed at the sound, and watched how Sherlock curled his lip in discomfort as the rest of the silk material slid off.

Sherlock’s foot was blotched with red, angry blisters covering his toes and the widest parts of his foot. There were streaks of red also criss-crossing his ankles where they had been bound, and Sherlock gingerly ghosted a few fingers over the sores. 

John instinctively took a step forward, mind flooding with concern, but Sherlock pierced him with a warning look.

He froze mid step, thrown off once again by the sudden change in Sherlock’s mood. “Let me help,” he said quietly, gesturing to Sherlock’s feet.

The boy scoffed. “You can’t. It just… happens.”

“Look,” John took another step forward, and Sherlock glanced at him tentatively but didn’t ask him to stop, so John crouched down beside him. “I have to wear cleats that are a size too small-”

“I know.” 

John blinked and furrowed his brow. “You know?”

“Observed.” Sherlock waved his hand absentmindedly at the technicality, guarded expression dropping slightly.

“Right,” John said slowly, a smile spreading over his lips, “ _Observed._ ” Sherlock’s lips twitched half-heartedly, as if some part of him wanted to smile back. John went on, “So, I deal with sore feet all the time. I can help.” 

Sherlock did another one of his sweeping, scanning looks over John, trying to detect an ulterior motive. Trying to find the lie. John’s heart sank deeper in his chest, and he felt his grin fall slightly. Sherlock had clearly not forgotten that day on the lawn, and John could see it in the crease between his dark eyebrows that the boy was as apprehensive to accept John’s help now as he was then.

“I’ll just grab some things from my bag, alright?” John asked gently, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye but the boy had dropped his gaze down again. John could see his eyes moving, back and forth, once again as if he was scanning a screen only he could see, still trying to decipher why anyone would want to help him. 

Determined to give Sherlock a reason to believe him, John got to his feet without waiting for an actual response. He walked the short distance back to where he’d dropped his bag and pulled out a kit full of bandages, vaseline, gauze, cotton balls, and rubbing alcohol.

As he walked back to Sherlock’s spot on the floor, the boy’s eyes were watching him with another guarded expression. John sat down directly in front of him, ignoring the way Sherlock had gone frigid, so completely opposite from the person who had stood over him minutes ago, smirking and talking a deep baritone. 

This was the Sherlock John remembered cringing away from him on the muddy ground.

His stomach churned at the memory, making him feel vaguely sick with guilt. As well as shame. He’d never been that boy. The one who went around bullying anyone who was different than him, who made people feel bad about themselves. For things they couldn’t change, or liking the things that made them happy. However, John was new at this school, and the boys on the rugby team were the only ones he knew. They were showing him around. They’d seen Sherlock walking across the lawn, and Sebastian had asked _“Hey Watson, want to see something funny?”_

John should have said no, because he knew full well what Sebastian meant by that. He could see the cruel gleam in the boy’s eyes, and heard them all stifle their laughter as they gained on Sherlock’s back. John had kept up, walking beside them even though he knew what was going to happen, even though he knew this boy with the beautifully chaotic black hair, alabaster skin and razor sharp cheekbones, did not deserve it.

Anyone who could look that beautiful simply by moving through an empty room, with only violin and piano for company, didn’t deserve to be pushed flat on his back and laughed at. 

And as John sat across from Sherlock now and saw that same tragic look in his eyes, he decided it wouldn’t happen again. It was ridiculous, because this was only their third meeting and John shouldn’t care this much, but he did. So he held up the bag full of medical supplies and said in a steady voice, “Trust me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened so fractionally that someone not watching as closely as John was would have missed it. He looked from the bag of medical supplies back up to John's face, switching rapidly, but John could see how Sherlock was beginning to thaw. Ice melted away from his eyes, his expression softened, and his shoulders weren't held quite so rigidly. The hand gripping his own foot slackened, defensiveness falling away. The last time Sherlock's gaze switched from the bag back to John, it was soft and expecting. Alarmingly open.

"Okay." He murmured with a nod, taking his hands away entirely to allow John to help.

John beamed, happily opening the bag up and taking out a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “This might sting a little bit.” John warned, soaking a cotton ball by tipping the bottle upside down. Sherlock leaned back, propping himself up on his hands, and watched John work. He flinched slightly as John dabbed at the red areas, his hands tenderly moving around to each blister and sore. 

Sherlock’s body tensed and he hissed in a pained breath through gritted teeth when John got to his toes. He looked up with arched eyebrows, freezing with the cotton ball just above Sherlock’s skin. “You alright?” His voice was delicate, brimming with worry.

“Yes. Fine.” Sherlock replied tersely, signaling to him to continue. 

“This is the last bit, I promise.” John murmured as he set back to work, silent as Sherlock went rigid and held his breath. A few minutes later, once he was satisfied, John put the soaked cotton ball into the discard pile with the others and began rummaging through his bag for vaseline. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock let out a large breath, relaxing slightly.

“Does this happen often?” John asked distractedly, still looking through his bag.

“Only when I have to break in new en pointe shoes.”

John found what he was looking for, pulling the small white jar from his bag, giving Sherlock a curious look. “En pointe?”

“Yes, the shoes that allow ballet dancers to stand on their toes.” When John still looked confused Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. “Essentially wooden boxes wrapped in silk,” he explained.

“Ah.” John nodded with a wince. “No wonder your feet look like they’ve been run over.” Very much to John’s surprise, Sherlock smirked at that, and John returned it as he scooted back over to sit closer to Sherlock, twisting the cap of the vaseline off. He dipped two fingers into the creamy substance, and looked back up to Sherlock who was giving John’s fingers a dubious look. His nose wrinkled when the smell hit him, and John chuckled a bit at the way it made Sherlock’s nose crinkle.

“It smells like doctors.” He whined.

“Good. Now let me see your foot.” Slowly, gently, John wrapped the hand which wasn’t lathered in petroleum jelly to cradle Sherlock’s ankle and guide it into his lap. It rested, slightly elevated, on John’s thigh. John could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, but he was concentrating on the foot, docile fingers spreading the vaseline.

“Careful.” Sherlock said, but his voice was a murmur, not commanding. John nodded, still watching his own hands work. With the tips of his fingers he traced the top of Sherlock’s foot, the way it arched and came to meet his toes where the worst of the blisters were. John’s touch was basically non existent there, pressing only as much as he needed to. 

He looked up to Sherlock to make sure he wasn’t in pain, but very much to John’s surprise, the boy’s eyes were closed.

“Sherlock?” John asked, but he only got a hum in response, a deep sound in the back of Sherlock's throat. “You alright?”

“Fine.” Sherlock’s voice was low, just above what could be considered a whisper. John raised a curious eyebrow that Sherlock couldn’t actually see, and a moment of silence later the boy decided to elaborate in the same subdued tone, “It feels… nice.”

John grinned, and sudden idea struck him. He raised his other hand up to Sherlocks foot, wrapping it in his palm and sliding smoothly over the slick surface. Sherlock looked for a moment as though he was about to protest, taking a breath and opening his mouth, the question _'What are you doing?'_ on the verge of rolling off his tongue, but instead Sherlock just let the breath back out in a long, satisfying rush of air.

“Good?” John asked through a smirk, beginning to massage Sherlock's foot slowly, carefully. Sherlock hummed again in affirmation. John returned his attention downward, circling his thumbs across the bottom of Sherlock’s foot, kneading into the balled up muscle there. He circled back, around to his heel and then back over the top, easing up whenever he found a an inflamed or bruised spot.

And then Sherlock said something that made John’s heart condition act up.

_“Harder.”_

And his tone of voice was so erotic, John had to swallow nervously and thank the heavens that Sherlock’s eyes were still closed so he couldn’t see the blush heating John’s face up. He simply dug his thumbs harder into the bottom of Sherlock’s foot, and the boy made a satisfied sound that only made John’s cheeks glow more intensely.

The worst part was that Sherlock had no idea what he was doing to John’s ability to think.

And this was happening from a bloody foot massage, god help him.

“Give me your other foot.” John said quietly, taking his hands off the one currently sitting across his thigh. As if in a daze, Sherlock lifted one leg off his lap and the other glided effortlessly over to take it’s place. John dipped his fingers once more into the jar of vaseline, repeating the process of coating Sherlock’s foot and then bringing the other hand up to knead as the tense underside. His heel, the arch in the center, the pad right below his toes. Sherlock sighed happily, a ghost of a smile spreading across his lips and reaching his still closed eyes.

John thought he looked beautiful like that.

Wordlessly, he moved Sherlock’s foot from his lap and turned to get two gauze wraps from his bag. Sherlock was delayed in responding, but his eyes fluttered open and he furrowed his brow, eyes begging the question _'Why did you stop?'_

John chuckled again. “No pouting. I need to wrap them before the vaseline dries.”

“I don’t pout.” Sherlock protested.

John said nothing, smiling down at his hands as he unraveled the gauze and moved back to Sherlock’s left foot. Once again he could feel Sherlock’s ever-intense gaze boring into him as he worked, and a heavy silence settled between them, uncomfortable for the first time.

The moment stretched on until John said the first thing that came to mind. “You said you were disappointed.” The words sounded loud in the oppressively silent room, and when he didn’t receive any response beyond Sherlock visibly tensing, so John forced himself on. “Before, when I asked why you stopped hating me. You said you were disappointed.” John secured the bandage on Sherlock’s foot and forced himself to look up, trying very hard not to regret saying anything as the silence seemed to stretch on infinitely.

Sherlock eventually replied with one tentative syllable, giving John a guarded look.

“Yes.”

“Disappointed in me?” John pressed.

After another pause. And he said again, although an octave lower, “Yes.”

John darted a tongue out to lick his suddenly dry lips, taking a moment before asking quietly, “Why?” 

He already knew the answer. Another memory of that day on the lawn assaulted John’s mind briefly, remembering wounded eyes and pale skin dotted with mud. Somehow, he managed to keep himself from wincing.

John waited patiently for Sherlock to answer. He was looking beyond John again, scanning and thinking a million miles a minute. John watched, fascinated, as thoughts and emotions chased each other across Sherlock’s face. Confusion, fear, annoyance, and finally a determined set of his jaw as his eyes focused back on John’s, suddenly crystal clear. John was abruptly made aware of how close their faces were as he realized he could see the gold flecks around Sherlock’s pupil, mingling with blue and seafoam green. 

He was so preoccupied with trying to decide what color Sherlock’s eyes actually were that he nearly missed the answer to his question.

“Because, for some reason, I thought you were different.”

John’s blood ran cold, subconsciously tightening his fist around the gauze he was still holding in his hand. _‘For some reason.’_ Those words were sharp, sinking into John slowly like shards of glass. 

He wanted to tell Sherlock that he _was_ different. Beg him to understand that he wasn’t like them, that he wasn’t going to hurt him. Not now, not ever. He wasn’t going to let anyone _else_ hurt him. He wanted Sherlock to think he was different.

However, John could already see the expression Sherlock would make at that kind of predictability. He wouldn’t appreciate it, surely, if John begged him to see that he was nothing like them. So no matter how much he wanted to do just that, instead he asked another question. A question he was sure both of them already knew the answer to. 

He kept his voice steady, and his eyes locked on Sherlock’s as he asked, “Different from who?”

But Sherlock didn’t say Sebastian Wilkes. He didn’t say Victor Trevor. He didn’t say Phillip Anderson. He didn’t say the rugby team. He didn’t say anything John was expecting.

With hardly any hesitation at all, Sherlock replied, “Everyone.” 

And with that, the boy got to his feet, one bare and still covered in vaseline. He didn’t seem to care, and John felt too stunned to try and stop him. What right did he have anyway?

In the end Sherlock was the one who left John on the ground this time, picking up his bag and walking silently out the door, en pointe slippers dangling from a tightly clenched fist. John thought that maybe if he was a better man, a braver man, he would have chased after him. Demanded that Sherlock acknowledge that he was different, ask him to come back…

But he didn’t.

Maybe _that’s_ what made him the same as everyone else.

 

***

 

Sherlock was in the studio again before John’s next practice.

Against his better judgment, John took his now familiar spot in the doorway. He knew Sherlock had seen him, but the boy simply went on stretching. His foot resting on one of the barres, body bent nearly parallel to it, fingers outstretched toward his pointed toes.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?”

“Can we talk?”

Sherlock removed his foot from the bar and turned to face John. “If we must.”

“Right,” John replied awkwardly, taking a few steps into the room and tugging absent mindedly at his rugby jacket sleeves, suddenly realizing it was a bad idea to come into this not having a single clue what he wanted to say.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice floated down to him before he had a chance to think of something good enough, and he looked up to see Sherlock wearing a bemused expression. “Your adrenaline is acting up again.”

“Yes, I know. I have a blushing problem, as you so kindly pointed out last time.” John snapped, said blushing problem causing his cheeks to flare up. 

Sherlock’s expression turned from bemused to fond, and John stared at him, hardly believing his eyes. His lips parted in awe at Sherlock’s light expression, left corner of his mouth turned up, eyes appraising. How could someone this confusing even _exist?_

He couldn’t even think about saying something, not while Sherlock was staring at him like that.

And then, like a vacuum, the casualness was sucked out of the moment. They simply looked at one another, as the air around them turned static. Possible words fled from John’s head as he looked between Sherlock’s eyes, attempting the impossible task to try and read the expression in them.

His smile had faded, but his eyes were still bright. John waited, thumb fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket again, focusing on keeping his breathing even. Sherlock seemed to be calculating, deciding on which words to say. John wondered if the boy was aware of his lips moving slightly as he thought.

“John,” He started, corners of his mouth turning downward as a wave of uncertainty washed over him. John nodded in encouragement, and it seemed to help, Sherlock’s eyes gleaming once again. “I meant it, what I said the other day.”

John’s hopes plummeted, settling uncomfortably somewhere in his abdomen. “Right.” He said with a sharp nod, trying and failing not to sound breathless.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, “No, you misunderstand. I thought you were different, and then…” Sherlock waved his hand to fill in the rest of his sentence, and John bobbed his head to show he understood, even if he was slightly confused, “What happened that day, seeing you with…” Sherlock’s jaw locked, mouth still open, seeming unable to finish another sentence. He shut his mouth, teeth audibly snapping together, looking frustrated.

John felt a smile creep back across his lips, hopes daring to lift once again as he said gently, “Go on.”

Sherlock blinked a few times before continuing, “I thought I had miscalculated.” he said in a much calmer, even voice, and John latched onto every word. “Turns out out you are very different from… everyone.” Sherlock finally concluded, suddenly looking a bit anxious as he waited for John’s reaction.

John let out a breathless, high pitched giggle. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Sherlock demanded, looking slightly offended.

“Just… you.” John grinned, a wide, toothy grin to show Sherlock he could stop worrying he was about to get made fun of. Sherlock returned it almost immediately, after a short bewildered look. He broke into a smile that lit up his whole face, even if it was still a bit shy. John had never seen anything so breathtaking, and euphoria bubbled up into his chest, causing more giggles.

Sherlock offered his own deep chuckle, which only made John laugh harder. Moments later he caught his breath, feeling light as air, breathlessly saying, “I better get to practice.” He jerked a thumb behind him at the open door. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

“Indeed.” His mouth was still curved upward in a smile as John turned to leave.

“I’ll see you around, Sherlock.”

“You know where to find me.”

 

***

 

The next day, John sat down at his usual table for lunch, carrying a tray wit a questionable filet of chicken, a roll which was probably stale, and a cup of pre-packaged strawberries. One would think at private school this expensive there would be better lunches, but apparently not. John prodded experimentally at the grey tinted meat, opting to instead go to the shop later for a bag of crisps. Probably the safest course of action, considering.

Sebastian was just finishing a sentence as John settled at the table with the rest of the team. “... such a freak, honestly. Who could possibly tell just by one look that I’ve been shagging the previous night?”

John set his jaw, wishing he didn’t instantly know who they were talking about.

“He probably knew because he was watching, perverted little queer.” The table erupted into laughter. John stabbed his chicken with a fork.

“Honestly, he dances in his free time. _Ballet!_ ” Anderson scoffed, “Wears tights and everything. How much more bent can he get?”

More laughter. John felt his cheeks burn, and Sherlock’s teasing voice murmured _'Your adrenaline is acting up again, John.'_ somewhere in his mind, but John didn’t care. He stabbed at his chicken again, this time hard enough for his tray to clatter against the tabletop, causing the laughter to die down and the team to turn their heads toward him.

“Problem, John?” Sebastian asked from across the table.

“Do you lot have a problem with being gay?” John asked angrily, voice sounding relatively like a snarl. He saw several eyebrows raise at him around the circle, but Sebastian simply scoffed.

“C’mon, John. It’s not as if _you_ -”

“So what if I am?” John snapped, surprising himself at the confidence in his voice. But suddenly, a weight lifted off his shoulders, and he repeated to only himself, _so what if I am?_

There was silence from around the table. John gave each of the boys a pointed look, daring them to say something, but none of them did for a long time.

That is, until Sebastian eventually spoke up, lip curling in that god awful sneer of his. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am." John replied shortly, sparks flying from his stormy blue eyes, "And while we’re on the subject, stop making fun of Sherlock. He hasn’t done anything to-” John blinked jumped suddenly as the entire table erupted into laughter before his sentence had even finished. He quickly recovered, glowering at all of them, feeling disgusted.

“The bloke does _ballet!_ ” Sebastian spluttered through his laughter, which was just as slimy and disgusting as his voice. He said it as if that fact made it perfectly alright to torment someone. John narrowed his eyes.

“So?” He said loudly enough to be heard over the laughter coming at him from all directions. “He’s brilliant, if you’d ever take the time to-” More laughter cut him off. John’s hands began to shake as he lost grip on his temper, red hot and trying it’s very best to burn it’s way out of his chest. Before he was even aware of himself moving, John was standing and leaning across the table, hand lunging for the collar of Sebastian’s shirt. He grasped it easily, pulling the boy clumsily to his feet and bringing his face up close to his own, both of them leaning over the table.

The laughter around them stopped abruptly, silence falling over the table. John breathed heavily for a moment, feeling his temper tightening in his chest once more, burning white hot. He took one more breath before practically growling, barely an inch from Sebastian’s face, “You _will_ leave him alone.”

Sebastian looked terrified as he looked at John, swallowing nervously and only tugging back half heartedly against John’s fist in his t-shirt. He blinked wildly, fear blanching his face six shades paler than usual, and yet he still had the audacity to stammer, “Or-or what?

A murderous smile played across John’s lips, voice sinister and thick as blood as he snarled, “Or I’ll break your _fucking_ jaw.”

And with that, John shoved the disgusting excuse of a rugby captain back into his seat, which nearly toppled over with the force of the shove, but nobody was watching him. The rest of the table had their eyes on John as he left, completely dumbstruck. And if any of them said a word John didn’t hear it, his heart beating wilding in his ears as he stormed out of the room.

 

***

 

_“You idiot!”_

John heard him before he saw him, Sherlock’s voice causing him to turn around. Which, as it turns out, wasn't actually necessary since Sherlock rounded on him, eyes wild.

“What?” John asked, alarmed, “What’s wrong?”

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock hissed, hands flying up grip John’s shoulders. John dipped his chin to his chest to look at Sherlock’s fingers, bone white, grasping into the black material of his jacket.

He looked back up to Sherlock, expression blank. “I’m lost.”

Sherlock growled in annoyance, and looked up and down the hallway they were in, connecting the chemistry lab to the science hall. It looked perfectly abandoned to John, but apparently it wasn’t good enough for Sherlock, because his hand slid down from his shoulder to grab firmly onto John’s hand instead and he muttered, “Oh, _for god’s sake,_ John. Follow me.” 

Sherlock took off at a brisk walk- well, for him it was brisk walk. John’s short legs, however, were no competition for Sherlock’s lanky ones, and he had to break into a jog a few times to keep up. Luckily it wasn’t too long before they came to a stop without warning, and John ran unceremoniously into Sherlock’s back.

Rubbing a sore nose which had collided with one of Sherlock’s shoulder blades, John asked grumpily, ‘What the bloody-?”

“Shut up.” He snapped, rounding on John again. Sherlock’s hand slipped out of John’s and was back to gasping his shoulders, to John’s slight disappointment. 

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock asked again urgently, giving John a slight shake.

“I thought we established that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock blinked, and stared doe eyed at John as if that thought never occurred to him. He blinked again and stared at his own hands on John’s shoulders, furrowing his brow like he was confused about how they got there. Hastily, he withdrew them and shoved them deep into the pockets of his coat.

The boy cleared his throat to only utter one syllable in a quiet voice. “Lunch.”

For a moment John was even more confused than before, and then it clicked. Sebastian. Right. John’s cheeks burned slightly. “You heard about that?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed. “Just because nobody _talks_ to me doesn’t mean I’m deaf to gossip.” His eyes fell back onto John, and he recognized the wary look he was beginning to grow familiar with. As if he was unsure of John’s motives.

He had to stop his himself from reaching out to grab Sherlock’s hand again, to intertwine their fingers and give it a reassuring squeeze. To show him that he didn’t have _any_ motive. He felt his fingers twitch toward the pocket where Sherlock’s hands were obviously balled up into fists, but then let his hand fall back to his side, deciding against it. 

Gently, John simply said, “I couldn’t even help it. He was being a...” John paused, searching his brain for the right word. Finally, he settled on, “Dickhead,” giving Sherlock a sly smile.

Sherlock’s wary look flickered briefly with amusement, the beginning of a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. He seemed much less panicked than he was when he first found John in the hallway, but there was a tension in his gaze that kept the smirk from reaching his eyes.

“He’ll kick you off the rugby team.” He practically whispered. John shrugged.

“Alright, fine. Doesn’t mean I’m going to let him treat you like he does.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted, and he looked at John as if he was some strange, exotic creature that couldn’t possibly exist. It was as if nobody had ever stood up for him before, or shown him any sort of kindness.

John’s stomach dropped when he realized that might actually be true.

“Listen, Sher-”

“Er, Thank-”

There was a pause as both boys stopped talking and looked at each other, waiting for the other to speak first. John inclined his head, inviting Sherlock to repeat himself.

“I said,” Sherlock paused for a moment, staring John in the eye and he seemed to freeze, lips parted, struggling to form to words. When he finally spoke his voice was small, but his eyes never left John. 

“Thank you.”

John grinned up at him, letting out a breathy laugh. "Funny, I was just about to say it was my pleasure.”

Sherlock offered a shy smile in return, still staring at John as if he’d just found an oasis in the middle of a desert. John’s heart stuttered in his chest as Sherlock’s eyes practically glittered. Nobody had ever looked at him like that, and once again the casualness of the moment trickled away with each second that passed, neither one daring to look away.

“Hey, Sherlock?” John said softly, still smiling.

“What?”

“You’ve gone all pink.” John said mischievously. He stifled a laugh and was happy to enjoy the way Sherlock’s face turned even darker pink, and then red, mouth opening and closing as if to deny it. John snorted, because the boy looked ridiculous, and John seriously doubted that he’d ever seen anything more endearing in his life.

“Oh, shut up.” Sherlock growled, clearly traumatized as he pushed past John and stalked toward the exit, red face visible above his upturned collar, tail of his coat billowing behind him. 

John threw his head back with laughter, letting him go but watching his retreating form. When he was almost to the double doors at the end of the hall, John shouted after him, “Human nature, Sherlock!”

“Shut _up!_ ” He shouted back over his shoulder before shoving both metal doors open (with more violence than necessary) and disappearing outside. John just continued to smile, because he knew he hadn’t misheard the slight smile in Sherlock’s voice this time. 

***

Turns out, Sebastian didn’t kick John off the team.

If he didn’t know any better, John would think he was afraid to. They talked when they needed to, and no more. They were perfectly polite to one another, in fact, even though the locker room always seemed to go eerily quiet whenever John walked in.

The peace would remain as long as Sebastian kept away from Sherlock. Or any bullying at all, for that matter. John didn’t feel apprehensive in the least about following through with his end of the bargain, knuckles itching every time he caught sight of Sebastian’s ugly sneer.

Their first game was on a Saturday morning. It was sunny, the grass was green, the birds were singing...

And John felt like he was going to throw up.

He always got nervous before games, even though he'd been playing rugby for about four years now. There was nothing for it. It was just pre-game adrenaline with nowhere to go, building up until John thought he might explode if he didn't get on the field and expel some of it. Once he was out there, there was nothing better, but he could really do without this feeling. His fingers trembled slightly as he began to turn the padlock for his locker, taking a deep breath. 10 minutes to go now. 

As the metal locker door swung open, John stared at the bottom for a moment before he could be sure of what he was seeing, and then he couldn't help but smile wide.

"Oh, you bastard..." John whispered to the empty locker room, grin plastered on his face. 

Resting at the bottom of his locker were a pair of brand new rugby trainers, white with a single maroon stripe round the middle. They would match his uniform perfectly, and John doubted the had cost any less than a hundred pounds. He picked them up, still grinning like a moron, turning them over and over in his hands. He'd never owned a pair of shoes this nice in his entire life. They were _perfect._

When the left one was turned upside down as John examined the bottom, a small piece of paper floated to the floor, immediately catching John's eye. He bent to pick it up, placing the shoes on the bench as he unfolded the note, even though he already knew who it must be from. Even so he couldn't help but laugh and shake his head at the short message written is loopy, perfectly neat handwriting.

_Get rid of the other pair._

_Good luck. -SH_

With another chuckle John put the note, folded back into it's original scare, on the top shelf of his locker. He wasted no time slipping the shoes on, and in comparison to the ones he's been we it was like slipping into a pair of marshmallows. He sighed, wriggled his toes a bit in them before bending down to lace them up. Of course Sherlock had guess his size perfectly.

As it turned out, luck from Sherlock wasn’t worth much in terms of rugby, since they lost 24 to 9. It was worth very much to John, though. He grinned again after the game at the sight of the note in his locker, slipping it into his jeans pocket as he walked back to his dorm room, not feeling the least bit bad about losing the game.

In fact he’d already forgotten about it by the time he slipped into bed, thoughts straying to strong muscles beneath black tights, and fiery blue eyes looking only at him in a crowd full of people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw Sherlock is so cute. If you made it this far, good! I won't starve you of romance any longer. All I'm going to tell you is that there's a first date in the next chapter... ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And all at once, John Watson became very important."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again my lovelies! I know I'm posting this rather late, but I know that many of you are anxiously awaiting an update so here you go :) This one starts off as John's point of view, then switches to Sherlock's. I'm afraid it's what you could call a filler chapter, considering it's only their first date, but I didn't think any of you would mind ;) I didn't want to try to squeeze it into a chapter with other things, so I gave it one all it's own. Anyway, I'll let you get on with it! Happy reading, and as always I appreciate your feedback ♥

The rain started suddenly.

One moment everything was calm. The skies were a light, innocent grey. Leaves fluttered harmlessly. The air wasn’t even particularly cold, yet it took less than a minute for the weather to reach a full on torrential downpour, and for John to get caught in the middle of it.

Rugby practice had been cut short, due to the field being transformed into a lake of dislodged grass and mud. John was covered head to toe in it when the rain kicked off, washing layers of dirt and clumps of grass off his body, sliding from his skin and left behind in footprints across campus. He was soaked within seconds, sprinting to the nearest source of cover which happened to be the doorway of the library.

The concrete canopy, about six feet above John’s head and jutting out over the walkway, thundered as sheets of icy rain pelted it. With a groan he threw his rugby bag to the ground, shaking his hair out like a wet dog. He’d wait here for it to calm down just a bit.

The roar of the rain and wind was enough to delay John in noticing that he wasn’t the only one taking refuge here. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned and saw someone standing in the opposite corner, and then broke out in a grin.

“Sherlock?”

The boy was wearing nothing but a pair of spandex athletic shorts, (the ones he sometimes wore instead of his usual tights, John had noticed) and a grey cotton t-shirt which was soaked through, clinging to Sherlock’s body and revealing his startlingly thin frame. John could probably count the boy’s ribs from where he stood since they stood out so prominently. Abdominal muscles still stretched from armpit to hip and twisted around his back, filling in the empty spaces between the bones. Sherlock’s hips jutted out as well, and it shouldn’t have been so beautiful, but John couldn’t help but think that it was. That _Sherlock_ was. All angles and sharp points that you could probably cut yourself on if you weren’t careful.

Pale arms were crossed across Sherlock’s soaked chest, and John suddenly noticed the shivers. The boy’s lips trembled, tinged blue around the edges, and his shoulders shook as waves of cold seemed to literally wash over him. As he heard John say his name Sherlock turned his head, and John couldn’t tell if he jerked in surprised or just from the cold.

“J-John.” He offered as shaky a greeting, crossing his arms even tighter against his chest and shivering some more. John looked him over, his smile slowly giving way to a look of concern.

“Christ. Hold on.” He turned to his dropped bag and crouched down to unzip it, pulling out his white and maroon rugby jacket. Once it was out, only slightly damp from the rain which had soaked through, he walked over to Sherlock, holding the jacket by it’s collar. Once he was in front of him, John had to stand on his tiptoes to drape the material over the boy’s quivering shoulders, but he did so with a shy smile. Sherlock looked like he was about to protest, but a violent shiver kept the words from ever reaching his lips, and he simply watched John as he secured the material around him.

He didn’t uncross his arms to slide them into the sleeves, but he hunched his shoulders slightly to allow the jacket to cover him more. Satisfied, John lowered himself from his tiptoes and let go, arms falling back to his sides. The jacket looked good on Sherlock, somehow. He especially liked the way his last name, _Watson_ , was embroidered across Sherlock’s chest.

His eyes lingered there for a moment before looking back up to Sherlock with a grin. They were so close to one another that John could smell the cool mint of Sherlock’s breath, overpowering the scent of mud and rain. His dark hair was soaked through, usual curls weighed down into elegant waves and pushed back, some plastered to his forehead looking like dark veins against alabaster skin. John wanted to run a hand back through them, feel the water run off his own fingertips as he tucked a curl behind Sherlock’s ear, or tangled his hand in the hair at the nape of his neck.

_Shit_ , John cursed inwardly as he realized Sherlock was was saying something, and he hadn't heard a word of it. He desperately tried to focus his attention back on reality, just barely able to catch what Sherlock had said quietly.

“N-not, n-n-necessary.” 

Ah, there was the protest John had seen forming earlier. Just a bit late. John gave Sherlock a pointed look. “ _Obviously,_ it is.”

“I’m f-f- _fine._ ”

And John was going to say, _‘Too bad.’_ Or a sarcastic _‘You’re welcome, by the way.’_ Maybe he was going to tell Sherlock that he was an idiot. That it was no trouble at all. Maybe he was even going to tell him how good he looked in John’s jacket, even if it was ridiculously small on him and bunched up at the sides. And maybe he would have gotten all of that out if he hadn’t gotten distracted by a drop of water as it trailed down the side of Sherlock’s face, tracing along his jaw and then dripping off his chin. And then another one, which ran down the length of Sherlock’s nose, dropping down to cling to the curves of his upper lip. John stared at the drop of water, which rode the curve of Sherlock’s pink cupid’s bow. He felt breathless with the desire to kiss it away from where it settled at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He wanted to kiss the blue out of the edges of those lips, make them pink and swollen. To transfer the water droplets from Sherlock’s mouth onto his own lips, taste them with his tongue. He wanted to swipe away the drop that was raining down Sherlock’s cheekbone now, and the ones clinging to his eyelashes. He especially wanted to disturb the rivulets of rain running like rivers down Sherlock’s neck and into his soaked t-shirt. He wanted to follow each line of water down, lips trailing along their path, leaving pink marks wherever he touched.

So, John didn’t tell Sherlock _‘too bad’_ or how good he looked wearing his coat. He didn’t tell him that he’d give it to him any time just to see the word Watson on his chest. More importantly, so everyone else could see it. He didn’t laugh or joke, or call Sherlock an idiot with a kind look on his face.

Instead, with his eyes still stuck to Sherlock’s wet lips, he murmured, “Have dinner with me.”

As the words left his mouth John tore his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s, which had gone wide, and then they narrowed.

“W- _what?_ ”

No going back now. With a determined look, which was slightly undermined by a smile John couldn’t seem to keep off his lips, he repeated, “Dinner. I mean- a date.” He grinned even more at Sherlock’s awestruck expression, softly adding “Come on a date with me.” 

There was a long pause, but John didn’t back down. Finally, Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again, sighed, and then stammered, “John, while I’m f-flattered by your-”

“Sherlock.” 

“Dating isn’t really my-” 

“ _Sherlock._ ”

“What?” The boy paused at the second interruption, obviously confused by the fact that John was still smiling despite Sherlock blatantly trying to reject him. John was smarter than he looked, though, and Sherlock wasn’t the only one who could observe. Although, anyone would probably be able to see the color rising in Sherlock’s cheeks, and hear the way his voice had gone up a few octaves. 

He was still looking down at John with a bewildered expression as John simply said, still smiling, “You bought me new shoes.”

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“ _So?_ ” He demanded, looking completely lost, and John decided it was one his favorite expressions Sherlock could make.

“So,” John went on with a chuckle in his voice, “let me take you on a date.” 

A crease appeared between Sherlock’s brows as he stared at John, trying to make sense of the situation. John could practically see the gears turning behind quicksilver eyes, but they gradually slowed until Sherlock’s shocked expression faded. He stopped blinking so rapidly, simply looking between John’s eyes again, and it was very hard indeed for John not to lean in and kiss him right there.

No, he was going to do this properly. There would be no wasted opportunities. Not with this one.

Once again John did everything he could to show Sherlock there were no hidden motives, no lies, nothing to be found out by that calculating gaze. He stared back with an earnest expression, left corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. 

Sherlock’s eyes dropped down briefly to John's mouth then, and he experienced another brief episode of cardiac arrest as Sherlock did the very last thing he expected.

He _smiled._

And it wasn’t one of his shy, reserved smiles either. Nor was it fake, or halfhearted. Not calculating, not fleeting. It was natural, and bright, lips stretching back to actually reveal his teeth, and John could have sobbed at the sight, it was so lovely. Instead of that, tempting as it was, he just let out a breathy laugh. This caused Sherlock to break his gaze (still locked on John’s lips) to instead meet his eyes, but the smile remained.

“Is that a yes?” John asked with a raised eyebrows.

“Obviously” 

 

***

 

Sherlock stared at his reflection in the mirror.

He had been there for nearly an hour now, obsessing over his jacket, his shirt collar, and that one curl that just wouldn’t behave itself. He’d thrown his one and only tie behind his bed because it had looked ridiculous, and he hated ties, but he’d tried it on anyway because what if John liked ties? What if John wanted him to wear one, and what if he was disappointed when Sherlock turned up without one?

When this thought occurred to him, Sherlock threw himself on the bed and spent ten minutes reaching behind it to retrieve his tie, only to toss it in the trash a few minutes later when he tried it on and hated it for a second time.

A tie was out of the question.

With a sigh Sherlock went back to combing nervous fingers through his hair, flattening out the uneven parts as best he could. He put on the excessively expensive cologne Mycroft had gotten him for his birthday (one squirt to each wrist, then rub along the neck.) He made sure his shoes matched his belt, and that they were perfectly polished.

It was nearly seven o’clock by the time he was remotely satisfied. With one last glance at the tie hanging over the edge of the trash bin, he shook his head and walked out the door before he made the grave mistake of fishing it out. 

Sherlock had insisted on meeting John at the restaurant, even though John had gone on about it being untraditional, and that he was supposed to pick Sherlock up. However, he'd gotten John to begrudgingly let it go when he pointed out that the boy didn’t have his own car, and a cab was hardly _‘traditional’_ in any sense of the word. They were to meet at seven thirty at an italian restaurant in London called Angelo’s, which always smelled like bread and garlic even as you passed it on the street.

When Sherlock arrived, John was nowhere to be seen. He ignored way that made his stomach twist, because it was not as if the thought of being stood up hadn’t crossed his mind. In fact, it was all Sherlock could think about as a gruff italian man lead him to a table and plucked the little ‘reserved’ card off of it. It was all he could think about as he tapped his fingers anxiously against the cheap tablecloth. It was all he could think about as he stared out the large paned window, watching cars rush past, heart sinking every time someone walked by who didn’t have messy blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes.

Sherlock checked his watch. 7:35.

John wasn’t coming. He was going to stand him up, or the rugby team was about to burst in and laugh at the sight of him, sitting alone in front of a large window for the whole world to see. Vacant seat across from him, candle flickering a few inches in front of his silverware (Angelo had brought it over, muttering something about it being romantic.) Sherlock balled his hands into fists and wondered how he could be so utterly stupid to belie-

_Oh,_ he thought as the the door swung open, bells tingling above it and allowing John to enter the restaurant. Sherlock felt his constricted chest begin to relax, his blood flow starting up again, sending tingling sensations to his fingers and toes. However, Sherlock was sure that also had something to do with how magnificent John looked under the dim, twinkling lights hanging on the ceiling and walls.

And there was a short moment before John caught sight of him, looking around the small room, completely unaware that Sherlock was mere feet away. It was a moment where Sherlock had the liberty to drink him in, to watch his hands clasp nervously in front of him, a habit Sherlock was growing accustomed to. It was immediately obvious that Sherlock was over dressed, but then again in comparison to John he always was. Tonight John was wearing a plaid button up, one button loose around his neck, and a matching brown cardigan on top of it. His jeans were worn, and he was wearing a pair of shoes that had once been nice, but had gone tan around the edges. As always he looked warm, and soft, earthy tones complimenting the color of his eyes and the round shape of his face.

Normally this was the part where Sherlock’s brain catapulted ahead, spinning out deductions about what John had eaten for breakfast and how he’d arrived and here and when was the last time he called his mother on the phone. However, Sherlock’s thoughts had been reduced to static at the sight of John, who (bless him) was still looking around for a head of jet black curls. His mind had gone blissfully blank, and Sherlock recognized the feeling because he felt it whenever he was dancing. Soaring high above the rest of the world, because none of it mattered.

How strange and terrifying it was that John could make him feel that way, too.

And finally, John’s face lit up when he caught Sherlock’s eye. He rushed to slip a mask of indifference back onto his face before John could recognize the sentiment. Nothing could keep him from smiling, however, as John hurried over to the table and stood motionless, beaming down at him.

Sherlock’s smile flickered and he furrowed his brow after a few seconds, asking anxiously, “What?” 

“You look incredible.” John breathed, and shook his head as if the sight of Sherlock had actually inhibited his ability to function. He took his seat finally, and Sherlock’s cheeks heated at the compliment.

“As do you.” He replied honestly, dipping his head a bit. John snorted.

“I’m wearing a bloody cardigan. You look like you should be in a magazine.” Behind John’s smile Sherlock caught the flicker of uncertainty. He couldn’t miss the corners of John’s mouth twitching downward slightly, or the way he reached a hand across to fidget with the sleeve of his cardigan. He’d never say it, never admit it, but John needed reassurance. Which was so baffling to Sherlock, because he’d never seen anyone look so attractive in his entire life.

“I mean it.” He said, ignoring the flush getting stronger in his cheeks, “You really do look… good.”

 

Sherlock wished he could use a word like enigmatic, or alluring, or captivating, but those words were all struck through. It would be a ridiculously romantic thing to say, wouldn’t it? Excessive, surely. Normal people wouldn’t say that on a first date. Besides, nothing did Sherlock’s thoughts justice anyway. How was he supposed to put the static to words? How was he supposed to tell John that the sight of him made his mind go blank?

Sherlock was certain that he could read through the entire dictionary and still not find a word to describe it.

John looked up from his where he was picking at the pills on his sleeves, looking skeptical for a moment, but then his expression melted into a giant grin. Sherlock decided he could definitely get used to being the cause of that so easily. He smiled back without even having to think about it, happily accepting that he’d said the right thing for once.

At that moment Angelo appeared at that table, his loud accented voice severing the moment. “Ah, boys. Love is in the air, eh?”

“More like lethal amounts of garlic.” Sherlock replied offhandedly, opening his menu. Across the table, John tried and failed to hold back a laugh. Sherlock snapped his eyes onto him, surprised, since that comment wasn’t meant to be humorous. The corner of his mouth quirked up at seeing John’s hand pressed to his mouth, giggling into it, cheeks rosy.

The fact that he had been the cause of that made Sherlock’s heart beat against his ribcage. Still wearing a half smile, he turned back to Angelo and shoved his menu away. “We’ll both have chicken alfredo. Extra rolls for my…” Sherlock’s eyes shifted onto John whose fingers still touched his mouth, though he was no longer laughing, “My date.” Sherlock finished, the words sounding a foreign on his tongue.

“Of course, of course!” The man boomed, scribbling the order down and tucking the pen and notepad into his back pocket. “That will be out for you right away, boys.”

“Thank you.” John said for the both of them when Sherlock said nothing. Angelo turned and left, humming _‘That’s Amore’_ loudly until he disappeared into the kitchen.

“You ordered my food for me.” John commented, lips forming into that infuriating crooked smile that shouldn’t be charming, but it was. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table toward Sherlock, and the orange light from the candle danced in the corner of his eyes, turning them turquoise.

Sherlock cleared his throat. _Focus, idiot._

“Yes, well, since you picked an italian restaurant it’s logical to assume you’d like pasta, since the entire menu consists of it. At lunch you often opt for the chicken option, when it’s available, even if you don’t eat it. You like bread, obviously, since-” Sherlock stopped mid sentence, eyes widening, and clamped his mouth shut. He dug his fingernails into his palm and averted his eyes, staring at the salt and pepper shakers as he mumbled, “Sorry.”

John was staring at him, and Sherlock didn’t even have to properly look at him to know there would be a crease between his eyebrows. He could practically hear it in John’s voice as he asked, “For what?”

“Just…” Sherlock waved a hand between them, as if his overflow of deductions were still there and he could dust them away. “People don’t like it when I do that,” he elaborated in an extinguished tone.

John’s response was immediate. Honest. Full of unwavering confidence. Sherlock was rolling a grain of salt between his fingers, watching it intently, but he dropped it onto the table when John said, “I think it’s amazing.”

Sherlock’s head lurched up and he stared at John, ears ringing with something that could only be an auditory hallucination.

_Amazing?_

“That’s… not what people normally say.” Sherlock replied slowly, hearing his own voice as if cotton was lodged in his ears. 

“What do people normally say?” John’s head tilted in question, hands twisting together on the table. 

“‘Piss off’ is the general reaction.” Sherlock gave a tight lipped smile to soften the moment, but John didn’t return it. 

He looked… sad.

Sherlock’s blissfully static mind began to crackle with strips of red, dissolving into chaos. He’d said something wrong, done something wrong, and just as much as he’d caused John’s face to turn rosy with suppressed laughter moments ago, he’d cause this strained expression as well. 

John let out a breath through his nose and bowed his head, rubbing a wrinkle out of the tablecloth, and Sherlock was just about say he was joking, was prepared to flat out ask John to stay if he had to, had even filled his lungs with the oxygen required to start talking, but John beat him to it.

“Well, I think it’s extraordinary.”

Sherlock’s panic subsided slightly and he let out the breath he’d gathered. Before he could stop it, he blurted out, “You really think so?”

“Of course I do.” The sadness began to ebb away from John’s expression as he smirked up at Sherlock through his lashes. Sherlock scanned, looking for the micro expression that would tell him John was lying to him, that this was all a joke or a dream, but as always Sherlock never found it. John maintained the eye contact until he was certain he wasn’t missing any hints, that when John said _extraordinary_ he meant _extraordinary,_ and when he said _amazing_ he meant _truly._

Quite abruptly, two large plates of chicken alfredo appeared in front of them. Steam hit Sherlock’s face, and in the end it was that which forced him to look away from John and wipe the shocked expression from his face.

“Enjoy! _Buon appetito!_ ” Angelo practically sang as he placed an entire basket of overflowing rolls next to John. 

“We will.” John replied through a laugh, and just like that the tension had dissolved, and the sadness was gone, and Sherlock was overcome with the unbelievable idea that someone could be so _simple_. People had always been so complicated to him, unpredictable and confusing, but John’s emotions didn’t blend together or linger. They just were, and then they weren't, and there was nothing confusing about it.

He was _different._

Sherlock reached for one of John’s rolls, his mind going back to it’s perfect stagnation that John seemed to supply, but before he could snatch a roll he was slapped on the wrist.

“These are my rolls, tosser! Get your own!”

“There are at least ten rolls there!”

“And I’m going to eat all of them.” John wiggled his eyebrows, as if daring Sherlock to tell him differently. And with that face, open and playful, Sherlock honestly didn’t think he could disagree with John about anything. 

“Fine, eat your bloody rolls.” Sherlock snapped, but with a grin on his face. He grabbed his fork and began to stir up his alfredo, stabbing a few noodles and piece of chicken before raising it to his mouth. When he looked up, he was surprised to find John watching him.

“What?” He asked through a mouthful of chicken. He hastily swallowed the bite, feeling foolish.

“Nothing.” He smirked, picking up his own fork and beginning to chase pasta around his plate.

“ _John._ ” Sherlock protested.

“It’s just,” John stabbed a piece of chicken and looked up, still smirking. “You’re just cute when you eat.”

Sherlock drew his brows together. “How? I’m just… eating.”

John laughed at that, popping his own forkful of food into his mouth and shrugging. He swallowed before saying, “I dunno, you make it cute. Somehow.”

Sherlock really wished his face would stop heating up like that, fairly thankful for not having any reflective surfaces nearby to show him how red his face had gotten. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

And as the night went on, their plates of food began to thin. Sherlock found himself genuinely curious about John, which was only strange because he couldn’t recall ever caring what a person’s favorite ice cream was ( _black raspberry sorbet_ ), or why their eyes hardened when they talked about their sister ( _alcoholic, apparently_ ), or how they got that scar on their left eyebrow ( _fell off a swing set when he was five_ ). Mundane details like that had never mattered to Sherlock, but suddenly he wanted to know everything. He wanted to know John’s birthday and his favorite place on earth, and he wanted to know what his favorite book was and how he takes his coffee, or does he prefer tea?

All at once, John Watson became very important.

And by far the most intriguing thing was that John seemed to care about the pointless details about Sherlock as well. He asked what his middle name was, ( _Sherlock had told him that his full name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and he’d laughed and called him a posh git_ ). This was entirely unfair, though, since John refused to tell him his middle name in return, ( _“It starts with ‘H’.” “Henry?” “No.” “Humphry?” “Nope.” “Higgins.” “Oh my god.”_ ) At one point John asked him if he had any pets and Sherlock, for some unfathomable reason, told him about Redbeard ( _“Oh, Sherlock. I’m sorry”_ ). And then he’d gotten all shy when he’d asked if Sherlock had ever had a girlfriend ( _“No, not really my area.”_ ), and then he’d asked about boyfriends, and Sherlock had shaken his head. 

As they talked and ate their dinner, John’s feet migrated underneath the table, bumping into Sherlock’s. He didn’t know why, but Sherlock hooked a foot behind John’s in return, tangling their legs together. John grinned, and went on telling his story about dressing up as a hobbit for halloween one year ( _“What on earth is a hobbit?” “Oh my god, you’re never seen Lord of the Rings have you?.” “...Nope.” “Jesus, you poor, uncultured soul._ ) John’s foot pressed against Sherlock’s calf, and his other knee knocked gently against his, both of them grinning and not saying a word about it as Sherlock told John about the year he dressed up as a pirate.

He told John all about ballet, since he was seemed to be so interested in it. Sherlock truly did love to dance, and never before had he had anyone ask him about it. Not his family, and he’d never had any friends. But John latched onto every word, nodding and smiling, eyes lit up with genuine interest. Sherlock told him all about the shows he’d performed in, told him how many times his feet have bled because of all the practice, all the while John interjecting _“amazing”_ and _“incredible”_ and _“wow”_ when Sherlock would pause to take a breath. It made Sherlock’s heart leap, and he’d smile at the praise, basking in it for the first time in his life. John asked him why he doesn’t take the dance classes at school, and Sherlock told him he’d been doing dance for far too long ( _since he was eight years old_ ) and he takes advanced classes at The Royal Ballet School in London, and John had mouthed the word _‘wow’_ again with a shake of his head.

Sherlock has never talked to another human being for so long in his life, and he realized with surprise that not once, since the moment John had walked into the restaurant, had he been bored.

Interesting.

By the time their plates were clean, John finally agreed to give one of Sherlock his rolls since there were about six left in his basket. He rolled it across the table and winked, murmuring, “Out of the kindness of my heart.”

“Thank god for that.”

And then there was silence for a moment, as Sherlock picked apart the roll and plucked pieces into his mouth. Italian music floated around them from the radio, and there was just the sound of other people’s voices and the the clanging of silverware. However, the silence wasn't thick, or awkward. It was comfortable, and John kept flashing Sherlock smiles that made his eyes crinkle around the edges, and everything was fine.

This went on for a few minutes, but eventually John was the one who broke the silence. His smile shrunk slightly, but didn’t disappear. His lips formed a gentle curve, and a tongue darted out to lick along the bottom one- another on of John’s nervous habits Sherlock had picked up on. He would have asked John _‘What?’_ but he had a mouthful of roll, so he settled for just tilting his head in question.

John got the hint, and said softly, “I think you are, by far, the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were surely in danger of bursting into flame. He suddenly lost his composure, completely thrown, stammering, “I’m really not.”

John disregarded Sherlock’s inability to receive compliments, and what he said next might have made sense in his own head, but to Sherlock it was like switching train tracks while traveling 300 kilometres per hour.

“Your ballet, Sherlock…” John swirled his fork around as if he could spear the perfect adjective out of the air, “It’s stunning. You are _so amazingly_ good at it.”

“John,” Sherlock mumbled, dropping his gaze, “Stop it.” 

Part of him actually wished John would stop, because Sherlock felt as if he might be burning alive, if the heat in his cheeks and spreading through his chest was anything to go by.

All things considered, though, being complemented to death by John Watson would be a good way to go. He’d already expressed his thoughts in every possible variant available to the English language. They’d already talked about his dancing, multiple times, but John always found a way to circle back around to it. 

As if it actually mattered to him.

John’s fork clattered indelicately on his plate as he let go of it, and instead reached across the table to touch Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock watched, mesmerized, as John’s fingertips tentatively brushed across the skin of his knuckles. After a moment Sherlock instinctively pushed into the touch, because John seemed unsure of whether or not it was alright. Judging by the sparks dancing up Sherlock’s arm, he was fairly certain it was more than alright.

He nudged his hand forward until John’s palm, calloused and warm, lay on top if his. It wasn’t until then that Sherlock took his eyes off their hands, tan fingers overlapping pale skin, sandpaper over satin. 

John’s thumb stroked gently, just grazing Sherlock’s wrist as he murmured, “I don’t care what anyone says, Sherlock. When you dance, it’s magnificent. The way you completely lose yourself in it.” John’s voice was smooth, enchanting, and Sherlock felt each word wrap around him like warm bath water. His thumb continued to move, back and forth, and Sherlock wondered if John even noticed he was doing it, or had any idea of what it was doing to Sherlock’s ability to think.

Even the static had gone quiet, now. It was a terrifying feeling, having his mind so empty, only aware of John’s voice and the feeling of his hand on top of his own. Sherlock swallowed, licked his lips, and said in a voice so quiet he was shocked John even heard it.

“Thank you, John.”

John grinned, close mouthed, eyes flickering between both of Sherlock’s. The candle had been nudged aside by their hands on the table, and the absence of light turned John’s eyes dark. His pupils were dilated, swallowing any light up-

Oh no.

 _God_ , no.

John was leaning over the table now, eyes dropping down to latch onto Sherlock’s bottom lip, hazy and unfocused. Sherlock tensed, but John didn’t seem to notice. He twisted his hand until his palm was flat against John’s, discretely sliding two fingers up to press against the inside of John’s wrist, trying to feel his pulse. He began his count as John’s thumb stroked back and forth again, this time across the heel of Sherlock’s hand, and he very nearly lost his place at the sensation. Somehow, he grasped onto the numbers ( _13, 14, 15…_ ), only to confirm what he already knew.

_Oh, bugger._

Elevated pulse, dilated pupils, increased breathing rate. Three factors that could only equate to one inevitable conclusion. So, Sherlock did what he does best.

He ruined everything.

He wrenched his hand out of John’s, and the startled, wide eyed expression on John’s face made Sherlock’s chest ache. He removed his arms from the table, shoved his chair out, legs screeching unpleasantly against the floor. John watched, looking dumbstruck, obviously still lingering behind in the now shattered moment.

Sherlock stood from his seat, and that seemed to catch John’s attention and pull him from his stupor. He blinked at where Sherlock’s face had previously been, so close to his, and then looked up to where Sherlock was now as he ran a frantic hand through his hair, shifting on his feet, eyes darting around the room.

“Sherlock, I didn’t mean-”

“I just, um, need the loo. Won’t be long.” And with that, he tore off in the direction of the men’s lavatories, pretending he didn’t hear John call his name again.

Once the door was shut behind him, Sherlock spun and pressed his back against it, hands disappearing into his hair, a ragged breath escaping his lips. He had not been prepared for this. He should have never _agreed to this._ A date? What the _hell_ had he been thinking? This was not his area. Chemicals and test tubes, physics and equations, puzzles and logic. _Those_ were his area. 

Hardwood floors and walls made of mirrors and pale pink silk around his feet. _Glissade, pas de bourrée, fouetté en dedan_. Gliding across the stage, twirling behind the curtains, flicking his wrists upward toward the spotlight. Dancing. Flying. _Those_ were his area.

Kissing, holding hands, tangling feet beneath tables. Blushing, stammering, forgetting how to breath. Wondering the best way to tell someone they’re amazing, caring what one person thinks, _feelings_.

Not. His. Area.

And yet…

It had all been going so well. He _liked_ the sound of John’s voice and he _liked_ the way John’s eyes were bright and alive, and were approximately thirteen different shades of blue. He liked John’s lips and he liked the idea of touching them with his own. The fact that he didn’t hate the thought of John kissing him and tangling their feet together and holding his hand was the reason he was leaning against the bathroom door. The fact that he couldn’t get the image of John giggling into his hand and blushing out of his head was the reason he’d forgotten how to breathe. At some point in the night Sherlock had stopped paying attention, and John had carried him far away from logic and predictability, and the most terrifying thing was the he wasn’t even sure if he wanted those things back.

Sherlock groaned and rubbed and hand over his face, feeling as though he was being split down the middle. He’d tried so hard, all this time, to preserve himself. Protect himself. Feelings were ravenous and they could destroy a person if they weren’t careful, so Sherlock had been just that. Careful. He hadn’t allowed himself to care, until now, and look where it had gotten him. 

John was probably gone by now, anyway. He was probably angry, and hurt, and he’d never talk to Sherlock again. He wouldn’t stop in the doorway of the studio anymore, or smile at him in the hall. He would probably go back to campus and tell the whole team-

Sherlock jumped as a tentative knock came at the door, directly behind his head.

“Occupied.” Sherlock said shakily, even though he knew who it was.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was calm. He wasn’t angry. Hurt, perhaps, but not angry.

_And he was still here._

Sherlock’s fingers loosened in his hair and he leveled his head, but said nothing.

“Sherlock, can I come in? Please?”

He sighed and let his eyes fall shut. This silence stretched on longer, yet the footsteps Sherlock was waiting for never came.

When John spoke again his voice was sharp. Resolute. “I’m not going to leave,” he said, and Sherlock heard a faint scratching sound as John’s hand, pressed flat against the wood, curled back into a fist. 

_Not going to leave._

_Not yet, anyway. But you will. That’s what people do._

The footsteps still never came, though. John was a man of his word, standing outside the bathroom door, not moving, not saying a word. Just waiting. Sherlock took a deep breath, surprised to find that it was uneven. Shaky, just like his hands as he reached out and grabbed the door handle, swinging it open even though every instinct he’d ever instilled in himself told him not to.

_Human error._

The door revealed John in his cardigan and rumpled shirt, somehow still managing to look wonderful through a strained, nervous expression. His hand was still poised in the air, as if he was just getting ready to knock again, and he hastily lowered it as he realized that would no longer be necessary.

Sherlock took a few steps back, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and looking at the floor.

“What was that about?” John was the first to speak, stepping just inside the door.

Horrified by the fact that his throat felt tight and constricted, causing his voice to sound strangled, Sherlock whispered, “You were going to kiss me.” He raised his eyes to peer at John through his lashes, head still slightly bowed. 

John nodded, knowing better than to try and deny it. “Yes, I was.” A long pause, a stretch of silence, John’s hands clasping just in front of his belt buckle. “I’m sorry, I thought-”

Sherlock growled, cutting John’s sentence off and turning his back to face the opposite wall, hands flying up to get lost in his hair once more.

“Sherlock-”

“Stop. Just… stop.” He’d meant to sound annoyed, but it came out as a plea. “I need to _think._ ”

There was only a slight hesitation before John murmured, “Alright.” 

Sherlock shut his eyes tight and sucked in a long, arduous breath. His jaw was locked, and his mind had gone disconcertingly blank again. Perhaps because the sentimental part of him, the portion of his mind he usually kept so carefully locked away, was conjuring images of John pushing him up against the sinks and leaning up to kiss him on the mouth, hands fisted in his shirt collar. While, at the same time, every natural inclination was simultaneously telling him to escape, to push past John and run out onto the street and find someone to sell him cigarettes, forget all about this night…

The result of the two sides crashing together was emptiness. His brain simply switched off, unable to endure the overload of information.

He blamed what he said next on that emptiness, and that alone.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

_I’ve never **wanted** to kiss anyone before. I’ve never **liked** anyone before. Nobody has ever liked **me** before. _

The very air in the room instantly changed. Sherlock could actually feel John relax behind him, could imagine the way his shoulders would sag as he let out the breath he’d been holding. He heard the footsteps this time, but they weren’t leading away, they were getting closer. _One, two, three_ steps against the tile floor, and then there was a hand on his shoulder. Gentle and shy, tan fingers resting on top of his suit jacket.

Sherlock didn’t want to turn around, but he did anyway. Slowly, and John’s hand slid from his shoulder down to find his hand, and Sherlock watched as their fingers intertwined. He kept his eyes there, his own fingers instinctively curling over John’s knuckles. He could feel John’s eyes on him, but didn’t meet them.

“Hey, Sherlock.” His voice was soft, dropping into that same enchanting tone from earlier, when he’d said things like _amazing_ and _extraordinary_. This time, all he said was, “Look at me.” 

Sherlock lifted his head up, switching his gaze from their hands onto John’s eyes which no longer looked hurt. Sherlock was hit once more with the refreshing simplicity of John Watson because now, without any warning or confusion, everything seemed to be alright. With John’s hand in his, fingers squeezing slightly, blue eyes glowing up at him in the fluorescent light, everything was fine.

So simple, and yet John still managed to surprise him.

“Sherlock, I’m about to ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly.”

It took a few seconds for the words to register in Sherlock’s ears, his mind still dark and stagnant. But once the words made sense he nodded, a slow bob of the head, eyes never leaving John’s.

The boy’s mouth slanted up on the left side, bursting into another lopsided smile, and he stayed like that for just a moment before he asked, “May I have the honor of being your first kiss?”

Under any other circumstance Sherlock might have laughed at his choice of words, because they were frankly ridiculous. However, the air in his lungs was precious and Sherlock didn’t want to waste it, because he didn’t know if he’d be capable of breathing again after this. So he didn’t laugh, he didn’t say anything, he didn’t even breathe.

He nodded. Just once, neck barely permitting him to move, but it gave John all the permission he needed.

The blonde leaned upward, having to stand on his tiptoes to reach Sherlock’s lips. He got close enough so Sherlock could smell him ( _tea and aftershave and honey and laundry detergent_ ). The hand that wasn’t still holding onto Sherlock’s reached up and cupped his jaw, warm fingertips pull him down until they were so achingly close, breath mingling and spilling over each other's chins. 

Sherlock felt the closeness like a pulse. Like an electrical charge passing between them. Molecules of John Watson, the composite of him, mere centimeters away. 

Their eyes had long since gone to each others lips, a moment suspended in time by fragile strings. John’s eyes fluttered closed, eyelashes dusky against his cheeks, even though Sherlock’s were still opened. Slowly, John finally closed the space between their lips.

It was a gentle brush of lips at first, barely there. Sherlock’s eyes were still open for a short moment before he gave into the natural urge to let them close, and his hands came away from his own waist to wrap around John’s. The hand cupping his jaw pulled him down a little harder now, and Sherlock went with it, latching onto John’s bottom lip with a sound that halfway between a sigh and a whimper.

John tried to pull back after a few seconds, and it was obvious he was apprehensive due to Sherlock’s earlier reaction. With good reason. But before John could get more than a centimeter away, Sherlock reached between them to grasp the collar of his plaid shirt and tugged him back, close enough so their chests bumped together.

“John,” he breathed against his lips, voice dark and husky. With lidded eyes he raised his gaze to meet John’s, his pupils blown wide, making him look positively ravenous. “ _Don’t stop,_ ” Sherlock commanded in a whisper, nudging his nose against John’s.

With a low growl that vibrated in Sherlock’s rib cage, John’s hand slid around to grasp the back of his neck and pull his mouth back against his. And then they were kissing,. Filthy, open mouthed kissing, and John was pushing back against his chest so Sherlock had to take a few retreating steps until his bumped into the sinks. He arched his back, allowing John to touch as much of him as possible, and the boy let out another possessive growl against his lips.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” He asked, barely leaving Sherlock’s mouth long enough to get the words out.

Sherlock only hummed in response, not willing to make the same sacrifice. The hand at the back of Sherlock’s neck crawled into his curls, John’s fingernails scraping against his scalp, and Sherlock moaned at the sensation. His own hands grabbed desperately, clumsily, at anything he could. From the collar of John’s shirt, to the muscles in his back, then down and around his hips. He pulled the boy’s hips against his own, coaxing a beautiful moan out of John.

“Any good?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

“ _Very good._ ” John replied, and this time had the pleasure of rutting his hips against Sherlock’s. He’d never felt anything like it before ( _literally_ ) and had a very hard time indeed trying to keep himself from spontaneously combusting. 

Sherlock’s lips parted beneath John’s as his tongue glided, briefly, across Sherlock’s lower lip. Again, so careful, so tentative, as if waiting for Sherlock to push him away. For once in his life Sherlock wanted anything but careful, and he wished he hadn’t shoved his chair screeching backward a few minutes ago. He wished he’d just let John do this in front of that big window, for the whole world to see, so he’d have witnesses and know for certain that none of this, not one second of it, was a dream.

But then again, out there John surely wouldn’t have just dropped his head to press his lips frantically at the corner of Sherlock’s jaw. Out in the open, John wouldn’t be breathing hard against his neck and kissing down, leaving damp circles where his lips lingered. Sherlock wouldn’t be allowed to bring a hand up to the back of John’s head and push his fingers encouragingly through short blonde hair. 

“For someone… who’s never been kissed before… you’re damn good at it.” John whispered between each kiss. “God, Sherlock. That was…”

“Amazing.” Sherlock supplied for him, equally breathless, leaning his neck to the side and hissing in a breath as John pressed his lips to his collar bone. He could feel the smirk in the next kiss he planted, moving back up again. Sherlock moaned.

“Nobody’s ever touched you.” John murmured against Sherlock’s earlobe, and goosebumps rose on every surface of Sherlock’s skin.

“Never.” He replied shakily. Johns lips pressed to the shell of his ear, teasingly gentle, until the smallest scrape of teeth touched the back of his ear. Sherlock whimpered.

“Sherlock…” he whispered, lips back on his jaw, traveling across it toward his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes fell shut, barely holding onto his sanity, nearly shaking from the over stimulation. “It is very difficult for me to say this…” John’s nose traced an uneven line across his cheekbone, until his lips were hovering just in front of Sherlock’s again. “God, really, it is. But…” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock pressed back, knowing what was coming. “Sherlock, we’re in a bathroom.”

“So?” He murmured and pressed his lips back to John’s, experimentally parting the boy’s lips with his own tongue this time. John’s hands, which were around Sherlock’s hips, squeezed as he let out a broken sound, thumbs pressing desperately into his hipbones.

“You’re not making this easy...”

“Good.” Sherlock bit John’s lower lip lightly, and appreciated the way it made John shudder beneath him. He did it again, a bit harder, pulling John closer. John moaned, kissing Sherlock again with an open mouth, but it was slow. And he was pulling away far too soon.

“Don’t pout.” John teased.

“I told you, I don’t pout.” Sherlock muttered.

“Yes, you do.” John pressed a fleeting kiss to one of Sherlock’s cheeks, then the other, and then one that lingers a few seconds longer to his mouth, but not long enough to give him a chance to kiss back as thoroughly as he would have liked.

Sherlock wondered how he’d ever gone so long without kissing John Watson, when he was currently struggling to do so for a full ten seconds.

“Angelo will think we’ve left him with the bill if we don’t get back out there.” John murmured, a smile evident in his voice. His eyes were darting around Sherlock’s face as if he couldn’t get enough, and Sherlock was sure he was doing the same.

“Fine.” Sherlock replied with a smirk of his own, removing his hands from John’s shoulders and waist, as John did the same. Neither of them mentioned the tightness in their trousers, or their sweaty palms, or the shakiness in their knees as the walked back out into the real world, which happened to smell of bread and garlic. 

And for the first time since Sherlock had first been called freak, or twinkle toes, everything was fine.

It was all fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for next chapter: sexy times, rugby!John, massages, sleepovers, and... Sebastian strikes again. *dramatic music*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John kissed Sherlock, his lips said 'I'm here.'
> 
> When Sherlock kissed John, all he could translate was 'I don't believe you.'
> 
> And that was what caused his chest to ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! You have all been so eager for this chapter, and it’s finally done, and it is a MONSTER of a chapter! I hope you like it.
> 
> Now I have no idea if any of you actually read these intro things, but in case you do there are a few things I’d like to address:  
> 1\. Someone kindly pointed out to me that men don’t ever dance en pointe, so they don’t wear en pointe slippers or dance on their toes, etc. For the purposes of this story I’m going to leave that inaccuracy, just because I think Sherlock in pink slippers is cute and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.  
> 2\. I am having a real issue with the timeline. I have Sherlock and John’s relationship moving along very quickly, and I hope you guys don’t find it too strange to read or out of character. I just think that they like each other so much that they wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off each other, and would feel very strongly very quickly. I don’t know… I beg of you to let me know what you think!!!  
> 3\. This chapter isn't beta read at all, so forgive me for mistakes. I tried my best D:
> 
> Bonus points if you pick up on all the quotes from the show I used in this chapter! I thought the references were clever.
> 
> Anyway, they get right to the diddly do in the beginning here so… enjoy ;)

_I miss you. JW_

_**John, you saw me this morning. SH** _

_Passing you in the hall doesn’t count, you git. JW_

_**Oh. SH** _

_Come to my room? JW_

_**What about your roommate? SH** _

_I told him to get lost. Now come here. JW_

_**So needy. SH** _

_Oh, hush. You miss me too. JW_

_**Brilliant deduction. SH  
Be there in 15. SH** _

_Make it 10. JW_

 

***

 

Nine minutes later there was a soft knock at John’s door, and he kicked a few dirty socks under his bed before swinging it open, beaming up at Sherlock. He looked dapper as usual, posh dress shirt (lavender this time) and black trousers, separated by a gleaming belt. His expression was unreadable, and John furrowed his brow, beginning to say “Hi,” when suddenly there was a hand under his chin, tilting his head upward.

And if John was about to form a question, neither of them would know, because Sherlock’s lips swallowed any possible words from John’s mouth. The hand under his chin held firm as Sherlock kissed him slowly, thoroughly, a warm breath feathering over John’s cheeks. He made a soft noise of appreciation as Sherlock deepened the kiss, other hand coming around to the small of John’s back and closing the space between their bodies.

John was breathless by the time Sherlock’s hand allowed him to pull away. “What was that for?” he asked with a giddy smile.

Sherlock’s returning smile was distracted. There, but just barely at the corners, and his eyes never left John’s lips. “I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since that night,” he murmured. A shiver ran down John’s spine at Sherlock’s words. He brought their mouths together again, tentatively tracing the seam of John’s lips with his tongue, seeking entry. John obliged with a sigh through his nose, parting his lips and arching his neck to get a better angle- the _best_ angle- against Sherlock’s mouth.

“You haven’t gone around practicing, have you?” John asked quietly, teasing smile playing across his pink and swollen lips.

Sherlock let out an amused breath, “Not to worry, John. You remain to be the only person who has ever kissed me.”

“Good.” And with that thought skittering around his mind, John cupped Sherlock’s jaw with one hand and pulled him down into another scorching kiss. Sherlock returned it, unfairly gifted lips pressing desperately against John’s, pushing him backward, and somehow he managed to kick the door shut behind them while remaining tangled in their tight embrace, never missing a beat.

John gasped as Sherlock’s fingers brushed under his t-shirt, blunt fingernails pursuing the vertical line of his belt, skating lightly and leaving goose bumps as they went.

“Did I mention you’re brilliant at this…” He breathed before sealing their lips again, a bit distractedly.

“In every variant available to the english language, yes.” Sherlock murmured, nudging their noses together. His fingers continued to tease, one of them tucking barely below John’s waistband before slipping back out. John’s kissing got gradually slower, his attention being tortuously divided between Sherlock’s mouth and those teasing fingertips.

“Sherlock.” He growled in warning, nipping lightly at his full bottom lip. Sherlock hummed in appreciation as his fingers inched toward John’s belt buckle. Unitentionally, John sank his teeth in a bit harder, a possessive sound tearing itself from his throat. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, though, moaning softly against John’s mouth. After a moment John let the lip slide from between his teeth, bringing Sherlock into a blindingly hot kiss, tongue smoothing over the indent his teeth had left.

“You might want to be careful,” he warned again, but in response he simply received the clicking sound of his belt being undone.

John’s eyes fluttered closed, lips hardly able to form the words, “ _Christ,_ Sherlock.”

Before the breath was gone Sherlock leaned in close. So close that their lips brushed together, sparking with kinetic energy with each word he murmured.

“Why on earth would I want to be _careful_ , John?”

Hearing his name in that voice is where he lost it. Sherlock sounded like velvet and dark chocolate and pure sex, and all at once John couldn’t take it any more. He couldn’t stand for there to be any space between them. Not between their lips, their chests, their hands. He never even made the conscious decision to start undoing the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, shaky fingers scrambling to get the offending material out of the way, needing Sherlock’s skin. The lavender shirt parted with each undone button, Sherlock pressing encouraging kisses to John’s forehead and temple, gasping when John untucked the shirt fiercely and promptly slid his hands over the newly exposed skin.

Sherlock always looked as if he’d be cold; a statue carved in marble. Art meant to be displayed, appreciated, but never touched. However, Sherlock was surprisingly warm, and John pressed his hands flat on either side of his ribcage and swiped his thumb back and forth over the pale rivulets. Sherlock shivered and leaned into John’s touch as his hands roamed, down to his hips, around to his back, upward along his spine.

“John,” Sherlock suddenly spoke, voice having dropped so low that it was practically subsonic. He looked up to find Sherlock’s eyes gone wildly dark, predatory, rapidly scanning his face. John’s cock twitched in his trousers, because Sherlock was looking at him like he was ready to tear him apart in the most delicious of ways.

His hands flexed at Sherlock’s waist, thumbs hooking into the boy’s belt loops and tugging their hips together suddenly. Sherlock’s eyes shut and he moaned, loudly, contributing helplessly with a rut of his own hips against John’s that he didn’t seem entirely conscious of.

John kept his hands on Sherlock’s waist and leaned in, past his expectant lips and instead seeking the corner of his jaw instead. “Never been touched…” He murmured, remembering the words from their first kiss. Sherlock whimpered, hesitating before letting his head lean to one side, allowing better access to the side of his neck John was currently trailing down. Every time his mouth pressed to the pale skin Sherlock sucked in a short breath, and the hands fisted in his shirt would tighten and tug at the material.

“This… needs… to go.” He stuttered between short intakes of breath, and John smirked against his collarbone.

“What needs to go?” He whispered, letting his teeth scrape across Sherlock’s sensitive skin. Sherlock moaned impatiently, and John could feel the vibration through his lips

“Your clothes… all of them.” His voice came through gritted teeth, and suddenly John was torn from the love mark he was currently sucking at Sherlock collar bone by a frantic hand on the side of his face. He was wrenched upward, barely getting a second to breathe before Sherlock’s lips were crashing against his. Thin fingers raked up under his t-shirt, and John would have cried out in surprise if his mouth was free to do so. They only parted long enough for the material to be ripped over his head and thrown across the room, and then Sherlock’s long arms hauled John back against him.

The closeness made them frantic, skin to skin, dwindling oxygen making them light headed. Heat like molten steel burned deep in John’s abdomen, between his legs, shivering in his core until it felt like sparks would surely begin to dance across his skin. Sherlock’s fingers left brands where they dug into his shoulders, blazing and desperate, searing lines at they trailed down his back and rested just above his already loosened belt.

“Off,” Sherlock growled, apparently reduced to one syllable sentences. John was in no position to disagree.

He nodded , bumping their foreheads together, “God, yes.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth did Sherlock push John’s trousers off of him, hands immediately grabbing at John’s arse. He groaned as the movement caused Sherlock’s erection to be pressed against the inside of his thigh, still through a firmly clasped belt and pants.

“Your turn,” John pointed out breathlessly, but was distracted before he could even think about reaching for a belt buckle by Sherlock’s hands slipping under the material of his pants. Slowly, his palms slid back over John’s arse, nothing separating them now. His hands were smooth, his fingertips curling until John felt nails biting half-moon crescents into his flesh.

“ _Mmm_ , god, Sherlock. _Please._ ” He didn’t even know what he was asking for, he didn’t care. Sherlock could interpret it however he wanted, John just knew he needed _more._

Sherlock practically snarled, a greedy sound that seemed to come straight from his chest, and John was suddenly hit with this completely new side of Sherlock. So different from the beautiful creature who could make moving art with his limbs, the one he’d first laid eyes on in a sunlit studio. This was so different from the boy he’d first kissed just a few nights ago, the one with fiercely apprehensive eyes, the one who kept his distance. This side of Sherlock was animalistic, primal, and John absolutely _craved it._ This was the Sherlock he’d fantasized about more often than he cared to admit, the one who always seemed to invade his thoughts in those few seconds before orgasm on lonely nights, wanks in showers… this was the Sherlock he wanted to take apart.

But at the moment it seemed to be Sherlock’s ambition to do that to _him,_ and John wasn’t complaining.

With a swift movement, John’s pants were removed, joining his trousers on the floor. He gasped, and dug his nails into Sherlock’s back as his cock hit the open air. Sherlock’s hand pressed flat across John’s chest, pale fingers splayed over tan skin, pushing him backward. “Bed,” he commanded, and John stepped clumsily back until the edge of his mattress knocked against his knees, buckling them so he landed flat on his back on the soft surface.

John reached a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down on top of him, kissing him deep and needy, moaning as Sherlock’s tongue met his and they tumbled together on the bed. John’s cock was pressed against the material of Sherlock’s trousers, and he wanted to point out that the level of nudity between them was rather unbalanced, but then Sherlock’s teeth were biting at his lip and his mind was once again lost to the heat of the moment.

“Sherlock-”

“John.”

“I need-”

“ _Patience._ ”

That command that was very misleading, however, because Sherlock didn’t make John wait any longer. A hand wrapped gloriously around the base of his cock, not tentative at all, fingers flexing to try and find the best way to grip him. John’s eyes rolled back as they fluttered closed and he arched into Sherlock’s touch, letting out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a sob.

“Mm- _Sherlock._ ”

Sherlock responded by stroking upward slowly as he leaned down, body hovering over John’s chest but not touching. John could feel the indent in the bed beside his head, which must be where Sherlock’s free arm was propping him up. He could feel Sherlock’s breath as he leaned closer to his lips, again not touching, just breathing hot and heavy over his mouth.

“Kiss me.” John whispered. The movement of his lips were enough for them to touch ever so softly, and the tenderness of the moment seemed surreal. Sherlock’s hand was moving slow, up and down John’s cock, eliciting little jumps and gasps as John waited blindly, eyes still closed, for Sherlock’s lips to touch his own.

And then they did, soft and desperate, a small whimper passing from Sherlock’s mouth to his as John parted his lips beneath him, allowing the slow entry of Sherlock’s tongue. It was almost worshipful, the way Sherlock kissed him, the way he paused to rub a thumb over the head of John’s cock so he could watch the way he looked as he moaned, as he arched his back to seek more friction.

“Tell me what to do, John.”

John’s thoughts were foggy, blocked by his impending arousal, and at first he thought that maybe this was one of Sherlock’s kinks. Maybe he preferred to take orders, for someone to tell him what they liked, but then with a jolt John remembered that wasn’t the case.

_Never been touched._

That most likely meant Sherlock had never done this before. Never touched anyone else, either. He was brand new. A blank canvas for John to ruin and map out and _oh god_ what a glorious thought, that his cock was the first to ever be touched by these expert hands, that his lips were to first to ever taste like Sherlock.

John moaned as the realization washed over him, and he forced his eyes to open lazily to look up at Sherlock, leaning over him. His eyes were still dark, still hungry, but there was an edge of uncertainty to his expression now.

“Faster.” John gasped, answering Sherlock’s question, “You can go faster.”

He kept his eyes locked onto Sherlock’s, mesmerized by the way the uncertainty melted away from his face, instantly to be replaced with lurid arousal. He tried to keep the eye contact, but he couldn’t help his eyes from falling shut again as Sherlock’s hand picked up speed.

It really was cruel for Sherlock to be so talented at this. John’s entire world shrunk down, concentrated only on Sherlock’s fingers holding his cock, stroking it, touching it in all the right ways. He had stopped paying attention to the sounds pouring from his open mouth, stopped trying to suppress them as he felt the first tendrils of orgasm beginning to wind their way around the base of his spine. His hips began to thrust slightly with Sherlock’s hand, unable to keep them still, and somewhere in the distance he heard a voice that sounded an awful lot like his, gasping Sherlock’s name over and over.

“Tell me you like it.” Sherlock was murmuring, sounding breathless himself. He pressed his lips to the shell of John’s ear, kissing, then biting lightly. His breath felt cool as he whispered against it, voice jolting with each rapid stroke of his hand, “Does it feel good?”

His voice was so sensual in John's ear, each syllable languid and beautiful. “Amaz- _mmm_ … god, of course it feels amazing,” he moaned , feeling his balls tighten as Sherlock let out his own quiet moan, taking John’s earlobe between his teeth, “Jesus, Sherlock, d-don’t stop…”

“Show me,” Sherlock murmured into his jaw now, wet lips trailing down to meet his throat, “I want to see you come for me, John.” For emphasis, Sherlock did a spectacular swirl of his wrist, thumb pressing hard against John’s glans on every upward stroke. It was almost too much, but somehow it wasn’t. Sherlock kept him right on the edge, nearly teetering over, murmuring encouragement against his neck, “I want to see you come undone, you’re almost there, _John…_ ”

He clawed desperately at Sherlock’s back as everything tightened and released in a fiery explosion. Sherlock’s name was on his lips. He could feel himself saying it, could feel his lips gasp the name, but he was deaf to anything but the heartbeat thundering in his ears. Sherlock’s hand continued to stroke, going from frantic to gentle as John came all over his fist, shuddering and shaking.

John’s eyes snapped open after a moment, chest still heaving. He turned his head to Sherlock who was watching him with tentative fascination, finally removing his hand from John’s cock, coated with semen. John watched as Sherlock brought the hand up to examine it, eyes bright and curious.

And _Jesus,_ it should have been weird. It shouldn’t have been unbelievably hot, causing John to let out a sudden rush of air as Sherlock’s tongue darted out to taste his fingers. It was infuriating, because he wasn’t even _trying_ to be sexy. He wasn’t even aware that John was watching, unable to look away as Sherlock took a fingertip into his mouth and sucked, cheeks hollowing out. He could see Sherlock’s tongue swirling, tasting _him_ on his finger tips, and John couldn’t help but imagine what that would feel like on his-

 _Bloody hell,_ Sherlock holmes was going to be the death of him.

The finger slid back out from between Sherlock’s lips, completely clean, and he looked as if he was about to do the same to the next finger when he caught a glimpse of John’s expression. He turned toward him, brow furrowing. “John? Are you alright?” He asked with a tilt of his head, and John giggled breathlessly despite himself.

“Fine,” he replied, shaking his head at Sherlock’s genuine innocence, “I’m just fine. Great, actually.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, obviously catching on that he was missing something. He looked from John and back to his hand a few times before realization dawned on him. “Oh,” he murmured quietly, eyes still on his fingers, cheeks turning slightly pink, “I was simply curious what it would…” He trailed off, cheeks getting brighter with each second.

John shook his head again, wondering how he got so lucky to have Sherlock Holmes half naked in his bed, blushing, hair unruly from fingers running through it. He looked absolutely gorgeous like this.

“Come here, you git,” John murmured fondly, holding an arm out. Sherlock looked uncertain at first, but he wiped his hand on the bed sheets (John would have to remember to change those) and obliged, crawling back up to lean over John. He looked up into those murky blue eyes, pupils still blown wide, and John couldn’t help but smile before whispering, “Kiss me, Sherlock Holmes.”

And he did. It was sweet and slow, and John was amazed once again by how gentle Sherlock could be.The hand that came up to cup his jaw was feather light, thumb tracing down along John’s jaw and then back up again. John’s own hands gradually slid down the planes of Sherlock’s back, over the contours and valleys of his shoulder blades, then each groove of his spine. Every once in a while Sherlock would stop kissing and let out a shuddering breath against John’s mouth, nuzzling his nose against John’s as he swirled idle patterns across his skin. Finally, his pinkies ran into the edge of Sherlock’s belt, which was still clasped and secure around his narrow hips.

He circled his hands around to Sherlock's front, getting his hands all the way around the buckle before Sherlock even seemed to notice. His lips froze, and he pulled away so he could peer down at John.

“What are you doing?” He asked, creasing his brow.

John shot back his own confused look, fingers still poised as Sherlock’s belt. “I, er, thought that was fairly obvious.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were pink again, but he didn’t pull away, “Y-you don’t- I mean, it’s not necessary to, um…” He waved a hand to finish his sentence, pursing his lips.

The corner of John’s mouth quirked up, and slowly enough to give Sherlock time to object, he pulled his belt from it’s buckle. The hitch of his breath was delicious, and he didn’t tell John to stop this time. “Sherlock,” He murmured, letting the buckle hang from Sherlock’s hips so he could instead undo the button of his trousers, “I _want_ to.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut as the button came undone, letting out a faint whimper. He bit his lip, and John couldn’t take his eyes off of the beautifully agonized expression. Slowly, he undid Sherlock’s zipper next, and Sherlock shivered beneath his touch.

_Never been touched._

John slid his hands beneath the loosened material of Sherlock’s trousers, then under what felt like expensive silk boxers, gliding wonderfully over the warm skin of Sherlock’s arse. They both moaned, Sherlock’s forehead suddenly pressed up against John’s as he sucked in a breath.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” He said softly, beginning to push the clothes down, off of Sherlock’s hips, down his thighs.

“I won’t,” he whispered, and John’s skin prickled with sudden electricity.

He continued slowly, sliding the last of Sherlock’s clothing down until his arms could no longer reach from his position. He could feel the arm propping Sherlock up beginning to shake, so he leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “Hey, you should lie on you back,” he whispered, eyelashes brushing across Sherlock’s cheek as he pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. Sherlock nodded, arm folding beneath him as he rolled onto his back.

John took a moment to appreciate the view of a (almost) naked Sherlock Holmes. God, he was a sight. Long legs, pale and patterned with swirling dark hairs. His cock was flushed dark, ridiculously hard, standing out against his flat stomach. Sculpted, nearly hairless chest, leading perfectly to his elegant neck, and a face that so regularly stopped John in his tracks just to stare.

Especially now, with that primal, hungry expression back in place. John didn’t think he’d ever get the image out of his head.

He hummed in appreciation, deep in the back of his throat, and sighed before he could stop himself, “My god, look at you.” He leaned forward, pressing flat palms on either of Sherlock’s thighs, eyes still raking over his body.

“You’re bloody _gorgeous._ ”

And Sherlock smirked in that almost-shy way that he does, a soft pink rising in his cheeks again. His eyes shone in cautious appreciation, hardly daring to believe John could actually mean what he said.

John thought he looked achingly vulnerable like this, but in a dangerous way. Fragile in the way an atomic bomb was fragile. As if anything could set him off, destroying him and anything in his path.

John moved up as Sherlock kicked his pants and trousers off his ankles, tossing them to the floor. He lifted a leg to straddle Sherlock’s hips, leaving a small space between their cocks, but he could feel the shared heat radiating off their bodies. He leaned forward, above Sherlock on his hands and knees, and pressed his their lips together. They kissed filthily, eagerly, teeth clicking together and tongues fighting against each other. They kissed until Sherlock’s nails were digging into John’s biceps, until he was whimpering and moaning and whispering “John, please.”

With a mischievous smile John rutted his hips down, hard. Sherlock threw his head back against the pillow with a groan, neck arching, his own hips rising off the bed to meet John’s. John rutted his hips again, sliding their erections together, his moans mixing with Sherlock’s.

“ _Fuck,_ John, oh my god-” The curse sounded sinfully erotic rolling off of Sherlock’s tongue, in that voice, and John snarled as he ground his hips against Sherlock’s again, cutting his sentence off with a gasp. Sherlock’s fingers slid down John’s arms, leaving red trails where they dug into the flesh.

After a few moments of drinking in the sight of Sherlock writhing beneath him, John slowed his hips, and Sherlock actually whined in protest. John simply chuckled in response, and ducked his head down to rest against Sherlock’s jaw, inhaling deeply then dragging his nose along the slope of Sherlock’s neck and collarbone, pressing random kisses along the way.

Sherlock brought a hand up to the back of John’s head, pulling at his hair and growling impatiently, “ _John._ ”

He dragged his nose back up, smirking mischievously and enjoying the smell of sex and and sweat and expensive cologne mingling on Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock shivered as John let out a gust of breath at the corner of his jaw, fingers tightening in his hair.

“ _Patience,_ ” John wickedly used Sherlock’s earlier words against him, and much like in that instance he didn’t actually make Sherlock wait any longer. He pushed his hips back down against Sherlock’s, and didn’t stop, moving frantically. His mouth was still pressed to Sherlock’s ear as he murmured breathlessly, “Can you come like this? I know you can… so beautiful… Sherlock…”

Sherlock cried out beneath him, gasping and driving his own hips upward. “John. God, yes, k-keep going...” He was then reduced to incoherent sounds, and John brought a hand up to push the sweaty curls out of Sherlock’s eyes, fingers tangling in the ebony curls, tugging lightly. Sherlock moaned and went with John’s touch, arching his neck even further, and that’s what seemed to bring him to the edge.

Sherlock’s eyes rolled back, gasping, body arching up as he came between them. He rode out the orgasm, clutching John for dear before he completely buckled, like an old bridge collapsing into the stream below. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck again as the aftershocks of his orgasm tore through him, planting kisses frantically to suppress his own moan. He wanted to hear every sound Sherlock made, every jump of breath, every whimper. He felt the vibrations through his lips as Sherlock went boneless beneath him, gasping for air.

“John.” He whispered, and before John could react Sherlock’s arms wound around him and pulled him down. In his surprise John simply collapsed, lying flat on top of Sherlock and ignoring the fact that their abdomens were covered with semen. His head landed on Sherlock’s chest, ear pressed against where his heart was thundering madly, and Sherlock’s arms tightened around his shoulders. A moment later Sherlock buried his face in John’s hair, kissing the top of his head and murmuring contently.

John’s chest swelled with affection at that, and he smiled against Sherlock’s chest. Quietly, he murmured, “I’m here, Sherlock.”

“Yes.” The boy whispered into another kiss, and the arms surrounding him squeezed even tighter. His body was still shaking slightly, and the way he was holding John against him was almost desperate. John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s chest and they just stayed like that for a while, because it seemed like Sherlock needed it. He continued to breath into John’s hair, the pads of his fingers pushing into his skin as he clutched, seeking comfort. And John let him without thinking twice. If a life raft is what Sherlock needed, that’s what he’d be.

After a while Sherlock’s heartbeat returned to normal, along with his breathing, and both of them were perfectly content lying together. They nuzzled against each other sleepily, and John thought about how only a few nights ago they were sharing their first kiss, Sherlock’s first kiss ever, and now they were lying together in bed, completely naked, happy as could be. Some part of his mind told him that maybe things were progressing faster than normal, but he quickly dismissed that thought because if there was one thing John had learned about Sherlock, it was that normal didn’t apply.

Extraordinary? Yes, that applied. Constantly.

John’s eyes were closed when Sherlock broke the silence, his voice heavy, “John, I have to go soon.”

“No, you really don’t,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s chest, tightening his grip on the boy’s shoulders.

Sherlock chuckled, the deep rumble vibrating against John’s ear. “I have to be in London in half an hour for ballet,” he murmured into the top of John’s head.

“Skip it.” He replied sleepily.

“ _John._ ”

“Oh, _fine._ I’m getting up,” John grumbled, and quite literally peeled himself off of Sherlock, sweat and semen slicked skin having stuck together. John used his already dirty sheets to clean them both off, and Sherlock sat up to glance around the room for where his various articles of clothing had ended up.

John reached to the ground and found his pants, slipping them on to at least be covered by something. Sherlock somehow already had his trousers back on by then and was sliding his belt through the loops as John lay back down on the bed. He watched Sherlock slide back into the light purple shirt, doing the buttons up with ease. The color suited him, John decided, and he couldn’t help but smile.

When Sherlock caught his eye he smiled back. There was a slight question behind his eyes, but he didn’t say anything. John wished it wasn’t so confusing for Sherlock to believe that he had a hard time keeping his eyes off him.

Sherlock had all his clothes back in place within minutes, and somehow he had tamed his hair just by combing his hands through it a few times. Finally he turned to John, and his confidence seemed to have vanished, dissolving into a shy blush and purse of his lips.

“That thing you did,” Sherlock gestured to the bed, shifting his feet, “That was… good.” He turned his eyes back to John, giving him a tentative smile.

John laughed, because Sherlock was so bloody adorable when he got shy. “You too,” he sighed, and Sherlock smiled a bit more genuinely. “Now come here and give me a kiss before you leave, yeah?”

Sherlock looked delighted at this idea, and crossed the room back to John’s bed, bending at the waist to place a tender kiss on John’s lips. They both smiled into it, sighing happily and pulling apart a moments later. John brought a hand up to wipe his lips before saying quietly, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Sherlock confirmed with a nod of his head. He placed a fleeting kiss to John’s cheek before straightening back up and walking to the door. Once he was there he looked back into the room, at John, still shirtless on the bed. His expression was unreadable. There was a ghost of a smile on his face, but it was just that. A ghost. The happiness had been hollowed out suddenly, his expression empty of it. And then the smile dropped altogether, lips instead forming a thin, white line. John furrowed his brow and propped himself up on his elbows, ready to ask what was wrong, but by the time he’d opened his mouth Sherlock was gone.

***

 

_Caring is not an advantage._

_Caring is not an advantage._

_Caring is not an advantage._

 

***

England had very few sunny days to offer in the month of September, so John was thrilled to see blue skies before his first rugby practice of the following week. He took off across campus with a spring in his step, happy to get the chance to leave a bit early so he could see Sherlock before he had to be on the field.

When he got to the studio Sherlock was lying flat on his back on the hardwood, left knee pulled to his chest, eyes shut. Obviously stretching. John smirked, taking in the sight of him sprawled out, how flexible he was with his knee nearly touching his chin.

As he took a few steps into the room he saw Sherlock’s expression change, a light smile parting his lips, but he didn’t open his eyes. He simply said, “Hello, John,” in a slightly strangled voice due to the limb currently resting on his sternum.

“Oh, hello,” He replied lightly, dropping his bag and walking over to stand above Sherlock. “Can I be of any assistance?” He asked innocently.

Sherlock opened his eyes for the sole purpose of raising a suggestive eyebrow up at John. “I suppose I could think of a use for you.”

John grinned and kneeled down beside him, “Just tell me where to put my hands.” He whispered, dropping his voice a few octaves and winking. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“Stretching, John. _Just stretching._ ” John placed a hand on his chest and the other in the air, silently swearing, Scout’s honor, and Sherlock shot his raised hand a dubious look. He rolled his eyes again again after a moment, before shutting them. “Replace my hands where they are on my knee, and apply a bit of pressure.” he commanded, and John shifted so he was leaning over Sherlock, palms pressed flat on Sherlock’s knee and calf. He pushed down lightly until Sherlock’s thigh was flat against his chest, knee coming up until it almost- no, it actually was touching his chin.

“Jesus, you’re flexible.” John muttered, pushing Sherlock’s leg up further still.

“Down, boy.” He murmured with a smirk, and John felt his face heat up a bit. “Now, let go for just a moment.” John obliged, and as soon as his hands left Sherlock’s leg it uncurled, rising straight as an arrow in the air before coming down again to rest an ankle of John’s shoulder.

John gulped as he was suddenly kneeling between Sherlock’s legs with, much to his horror, an erection that was getting rather difficult to ignore.

And Sherlock, being the bastard he was, smirked as if he knew. As if he could sense it even though his eyes had been closed the entire time.

“What do you want me to do?” John asked as evenly as he could.

“Lift.”

“What?”

“Lift my leg, John. I need to stretch my hamstrings.”

John blinked down at Sherlock as his chest tightened, and then he narrowed his eyes, lips curving into a grin of disbelief. “You’re doing this on _purpose,_ ” he accused as his cock throbbed painfully between his legs. Sherlock ( _the bastard_ ) smirked even more, eyes crinkling at the sides but still staying firmly closed.

“Problem?” He asked with a mocking arch of his eyebrows.

Well, two could play at that game.

Instead of grasping Sherlock by they ankle, John slowly slid his hand down the inside of Sherlock’s leg, starting at his locked knee and skating down the black tights, slowing down once he reached Sherlock’s inner thigh. The ankle on John’s shoulder pressed down instinctively, toes curling, and Sherlock let out a shuddering exhale.

“ _Stretching_ , John.” Sherlock reminded breathlessly, suddenly lacking in the seductive confidence from before, and John squeezed his fingers teasingly to show how little he cared about stretching.

“Problem?” John mocked, and Sherlock let out a low sound that was partially a whine, morphing into a moan halfway through. John smiled triumphantly and whispered, “That’s what I thought.” He turned his head to the side so he could press a close mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s ankle, and the boy gasped slightly.

John was still getting used to this hyper-sensitivity-to-touch thing.

He leaned forward slowly, causing Sherlock’s leg to rise until it was at a 90 degree angle to his body on the floor. Heat pooled low in John’s abdomen as his mind raced, realizing all the dirty things he could do to Sherlock with that kind of flexibility, wondered how far he could really bend him…

The fingers on Sherlock’s thigh traced up the seam of his tights, trailing higher, and _higher_ up Sherlock’s leg until he reached the crease of his leg and his pelvis. Sherlock shivered under the barely-there touch, and when John shamelessly palmed Sherlock through his tights the boy let out a half-startled half-aroused cry.

“ _Christ,_ John.” His eyes snapped open and he pierced John with a glare, which he returned with a mischievous grin. John flexed his fingers, massaging the outline of Sherlock’s half hard cock until his glare faded to a shuddering look of ecstasy.

“Sorry,” John murmured, not sounding at all sorry as he watched his own hand moving over Sherlock’s erection, “The tights make me do things.”

Sherlock let out a hysterical laugh, which turned into a groan as John pressed at the head of Sherlock’s cock with his thumb. “The _tights_? Y-you are _ridiculous. _”__ Sherlock’s breath hitched and his eyes rolled back, head rolling against the floorboards and John smiled proudly.

“They suit you,” John murmured, corner of his mouth quirking up as a blush crept it’s way onto Sherlock’s cheeks.

“As much as you may- ah- like them, J-John, one thing they are not - nngh- practical for is, mmm, god, John stop it. I can’t think.” Sherlock’s teeth were bared, and he actually looked annoyed more than anything, as if his own mind had failed him.

John lightened the pressure, teasing lightly with docile fingertips as he said, “That’s rather the point. You think too much.”

“No, you just think far too little,” he countered, finally able to form sentences now that John wasn’t torturing him quite so severely. “As I was saying,” He went on, voice slightly frantic, “one thing my tights cannot do is conceal, so if you’d be so kind as to not- ah!”

John palmed Sherlock through the thin material again, practically able to feel each vein and detail now that Sherlock was fully hard, and John had to suppress his own moan. Sherlock’s head fell back to the floorboards with a dull thump, curls splaying around his head like a shadowy halo, and he gasped for breath. He was so responsive, John barely had to work to have Sherlock incoherently babbling beneath him.

Sherlock breathed John’s name out over shaky lips after another minute, and finally John decided he’d been tormented enough. He slid his hand away, and instantly Sherlock’s leg stopped trying to buckle over John’s shoulder, muscles relaxing. His eyes were still pinched shut as John gently brought Sherlock’s leg down to the floor so he could lean forward and press his lips to Sherlock’s. He was breathing hard through his mouth, but as John pressed their lips together Sherlock pushed back weakly, breaking off after a moment to suck in a breath.

“Evil,” He panted, but there was a fond smile on his lips, and John kissed him again because damn, he couldn’t even help it.

After a moment John got to his feet and stood over Sherlock, offering a hand. “C’mon, up you go.”  
Sherlock stared at the hand before sighing and shaking his head, “I can’t.”

John barked out a laugh, “Oh, please. I’m flattered, really, but I’m not that talented.” John waggled his fingers, “I have to go soon, you git.”

Sherlock smiled and took the hand, allowing John to haul him to his feet. No sooner was he flat footed did John lean up to plant a kiss on his lips. He’d kissed Sherlock so many times in such a short span of time, and yet it still didn’t feel like enough. Their lips fit together perfectly, and kissing Sherlock made John feel warm and light, like if Sherlock were to let go of him he might float up toward the ceiling and never come down.

“Oi, Watson!” An unpleasant, familiar voice interrupted them.

John felt Sherlock tense against him at the sound of Sebastian’s voice, subconsciously taking a step away, but John laced their fingers together and squeezed, keeping him in place. Sherlock wrenched his gaze away from the door, where Sebastian must be standing, to instead look down at John, and the fear swimming behind those pale eyes was enough to make John’s stomach drop.

“You’ve got something on your face, John.” Sebastian laughed, which was soon joined by a few other people’s laughter.

John spun around, letting go of Sherlock’s hand but still assuming a protective stance between him and the boys. “Yeah, well, I don’t mind,” John growled with a clenched jaw, giving each boy their own, separate glare before turning back around, grabbing either side of Sherlock’s face in his hands, and kissing him fiercely on the mouth.

Sherlock made a startled sound and was unresponsive for a moment before bringing a nervous hand up to the back of John’s head and kissing back, moving slowly over John’s mouth. He seized Sherlock’s lip between his teeth, tugging him forward before kissing gently, slowly, slower, and then he pulled back. He kept Sherlock close, pressed against him, and turned back to the boys who stood frozen in the doorway.

“Do you lot mind?” John seethed in an acidic tone, “I have a few minutes left before practice, and I’d like to spend them snogging my boyfriend.”

Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. However he kept his glare steady, even though Sherlock’s body had gone alarmingly rigid beside him.

“Just don’t be late, Watson.” Sebastian said, looking slightly dazed as he turned to leave.

“And keep it in your pants, faggots.” Victor spat with a grimace. John flinched.

“Could’ve gone my whole life without seeing that…” Anderson shook his head and was the last to leave, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the silent studio.

John took a deep breath, and turned around,stepping back from his possessive stance and clearing his throat. His cheeks had turned crimson, while Sherlock was actually paler than usual, looking beyond John at nothing in particular.

“Sherlock?”

Silence.

“Sherlock.”

Nothing.

“Look, I didn’t mean- it just slipped out.”

Sherlock blinked a few times before his eyes finally focused on John’s. His face was still blanched, looking vaguely ill, and John felt the sudden urge to run from the room in embarrassment.

“It’s… getting a bit scary now.” He said awkwardly as Sherlock continued to simply stare.

And then Sherlock sucked in a long breath through his nose, opened his mouth, almost said something, and then closed it again. John’s skin actually itched from the blush rising in it.

A moment later, just as John was about to give up and leave Sherlock to go through whatever mental breakdown he was having by himself, Sherlock took a few hurried steps forward. For a terrifying moment John thought he was about to get punched, but instead his hands fisted in John’s collar and wrenched him up so quickly John’s feet were almost lifted from the floor. And then they were kissing, mouths crashing against one another’s with bruising force, arms wrapping tight around each other until John wasn’t sure which tongue was who’s, who’s lips were doing the biting, whose hands were grappling at each other with dire desperation.

John had never felt so breathless in his life when they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting against each other's, hot breath mixing between them.

“That was… the most ridiculous thing… that I’ve ever done…” John gasped, pressing a few fervent kisses around Sherlock’s mouth, wherever he could reach.

“You stole my first kiss in a bathroom.” Sherlock pointed out, leaning into every touch of John’s lips, eyes closed.

John laughed against Sherlock’s cheekbone, “Yes, but that wasn’t just me.” He captured Sherlock’s bottom lip again and kissed him slowly, savoring the moment before pulling back far enough to actually look Sherlock in the eye. His gaze was lidded, hazy with arousal, and it was very close to physically painful for John to whisper, “I have to go to practice.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “I know.” He kissed John once more before letting his arms fall away and stepping back. John sighed and refused the temptation to snog Sherlock some more, which really was a test of his dwindling self control. He’d be lost at the game tomorrow if he didn’t get this practice in, so he grabbed his bag and tried not to think about having to spend the next hour and a half in Sebastian Wilke’s company.

He was nearly to the door when a (rather important) thought occurred to him. He spun around in the doorway and looked at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow at him. Suddenly John felt unprecedentedly nervous.

“So, what are we, exactly?” He asked quietly, needing to know.

Sherlock’s hesitation was slight, but John didn’t miss it. He gaped for a moment before blurting out, “Homosapiens, John. Both male. Do try to keep up.”

John let out a breathy laugh, flooded with sudden relief. Thank god for Sherlock and his strange sense of humor. For some reason he always had a way of defusing the tension. “Ha-ha,” John said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

Sherlock let out a huff of breath, causing his frail shoulders to rise and fall. John watched the shadows dance across his collar bones, watched his throat bob as he formed the words, “What do you want me to be, John?”

John looked to the ceiling for a moment of consideration, not even truly needing to, since he already knew what the answer to that was. “I want you to be mine,” he said finally, calmly. Absolutely sure of himself.

“Then that is what I am,” Sherlock murmured with an incline of his head. John’s breath caught in his throat, because oh how wonderful it was to think that Sherlock Holmes could be his, and only his.

“You know,” John said, unable to keep a smile off his face as he leaned against the door frame, “That means I’m yours, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes glistened as a gentle grin graced his lips. “I know.”

“Good.”

“Indeed.”

“I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Obviously.”

 

***

 

Sitting in the stands of the rugby field felt wrong.

It was a place Sherlock had carefully avoided, for obvious reasons. His skin crawled uncomfortably as he fidgeted with the thick, wool sleeve of his belstaff. There were so many people here, and none of them were John yet. What a waste.

He had taken a seat in one of the front rows and patiently waited for John ( _boyfriend_ ) to come onto the field with the rest of the team. Sherlock didn’t know a thing about rugby; had deleted the rules ages ago. Useless information. He’d never need it.

 _Christ_ , Sherlock hated it here. He hated damp grass and the chill of the air as it turned from afternoon to evening. He hated the people most of all. Obvious people he could read so easily. _She’s having an affair, he has a gambling problem, and that one just stole eleven pounds out of someone’s bag._

They were all so spectacularly dull.

John, though, was the opposite of dull. John was his (he’d even said so) and he was John’s. Belonging to someone was new. Sherlock never thought he’d like that, being caged. Being roped down.

John was different.

Sherlock didn’t feel caged. He didn’t feel trapped. And most of all, John didn’t expect him to change. This was the thing that set John apart from what appeared to be the rest of the human race. He, for some reason, liked Sherlock and every oddity that composed his existence. John had spent a rather large around of time around him and still wanted to spend more. It was endlessly fascinating, and new, and terrifying all at once.

Other people were always tying weights to Sherlock’s ankles, trying to keep him on the ground, while John was like his own personal source of helium. A balloon tethered to his wrist. John could take him away from the dull, nothingness. He made life interesting.

He made life good.

And this is was good boyfriends do, don’t they? Something about being supportive and what not. Sherlock had noticed John was nervous again (he always was before games). He hadn’t eaten anything all day, his hands were shaky, and he’d been frowning and looking at his watch more often than usual… it was unbearable to watch

It was probably stupid to assume that his presence would help John in any way, or that it would even be noticed, but he thought he might try it out. This _boyfriend_ thing.

As John ran out onto the field minutes later in his rugby uniform, showing off toned legs and muscled arms, cool confidence lining his eyes, Sherlock decided that being John Watson’s boyfriend was nothing to complain about.

Even if he did hate this place, once John was there it didn’t seem so bad.

Strange, that.

 

***

 

John inhaled deep through his nose once he was out on the field, keeping up a light jog until he reached the center. The smell of damp grass and dislodged mud greeted his nostrils, mixed faintly with the scent of sweat from the teammates walking beside him. He let the breath out, if a bit shakily, hoping the ref’s and coaches would get the game started quickly.

John's stomach growled, and he groaned, suddenly regretting his decision of only eaten three aspirin throughout the day instead of actual food.

He was playing a back for this game, which is why his stomach had settled into a tight knot which he couldn’t seem to untangle. Usually he played a forward, which was easy enough. Brawn and no brains, using his body to ram into anyone on the opposite team, moving up the field as best he could. Number four on the lineups. The worst he ever got was a pair of bruised shoulders from scrums, or blocking players from interceptions.

But today he was a back, responsible for handling the ball and kicking it across the goal (if he ever got the chance). It’s not as if he’d never done it before, but he certainly didn’t prefer it. It wasn’t his usual position, however one of their best players (Mike) had gone and sprained his ankle last practice, and out of everyone on the team John was the only forward who was actually fast when he wanted to be.

It may have also had a bit to do with Sebastian not caring whether John wanted to or not, so he’d put John in Mike’s place without much deliberation.

In truth, he loved the feeling of dashing down the field, wind whistling in his ears, rugby ball tucked safely beneath his left arm. He loved feeling the grass slip by beneath his cleats, uniform waving wildly at his sides as he tore, zig zagged, flew across the field. There was nothing compared to that feeling.

That, however, was not enough to keep the nerves from creeping up his spine, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. Or perhaps that was the chill of the morning air. John couldn’t actually tell.

A whistle sounded, sharp and angry through the air. Chatter among the players instantly died down as they gathered around the 50 meter line, preparing for the kickoff. The world seemed to shift into slow motion, shrinking down until all the other little things didn’t matter. Until all he could see, all he could feel was the field and the way the opposing team was shifting in their positions. All he could hear was his breath and his heart beat, steady and strong in his ears. The nerves trickled away and this, _this_ , was what he played for. The serene feeling that washed over him just before the whistle blared through the air again, _that’s_ what he'd been waiting for.

Anderson gave John the quickest of nods which he saw out of the corner of his eye, signaling _go_ , so John rushed forward. Just as the backs collided with the live player on the opposite team and the ball flew from his hands, John scooped it up before it touched the ground. He grinned triumphantly and shot forward, running a few yards before looking back for a teammate to pass to. He lobbed it to Sebastian, who caught it mid air and then rushed past John toward one of the goals.

Not a bad start, if John said so himself.

The game carried on brutally. Mud ended up in John’s eyes, blinding him on more than one occasion. His entire left ride was scraped from a particularly vicious slide across the ground. His head pounded, his ankles ached, and god, he was having the time of his life. By the time the game reached half time, he was winded, soaked, and smiling because they were up 6 to 5.

John half jogged to to the bench, gasping for breath after a long run across the field. He was reaching for one of many water bottles strewn about on the grass when he caught sight of a familiar coat, collar turned up against a long pale neck. John did a double take, utterly baffled, but there was no mistaking those eyes. There was only one pair in the world like that.

 _Sherlock_.

If John thought he was breathless before, it was nothing compared to seeing Sherlock in the bleachers, shy smile on his face and color in his cheeks that may or may not be from the cold. John rushed over to stand in front of him, beaming like some sort of half wit.

“You’re at my game,” he panted stupidly, still smiling.

Sherlock shrugged. “There was nothing better to do,” he muttered with his usual, brisk nonchalance, but when he met John’s eyes he could see the warmth behind them.

“You must have been incredibly bored,” John replied with a grin.

“Oh, _excruciatingly_ so.” Sherlock smirked as if he was trying not to, eyes crinkling at the side in that way John loved. Something fluttered and kicked in his chest at the sight of it.

John chuckled before bending at the waist, indulging in the reversed height difference caused by Sherlock sitting on the bench. He pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s mouth, absurdly glad to see a bit of mud smudge on Sherlock’s usually perfect cheek as he pulled away.

_A blank canvas, mine to wreck._

He decided not to tell Sherlock about the mud. Let it stay there for a bit.

“Thank you,” John murmured before kissing Sherlock again, a bit longer this time. Damn their audience, Sherlock had actually come to this game. Sherlock actually cared enough to drag himself to the rugby field, which John imagined couldn’t be pleasant for him, with how the rest of the team treated him. But he’d done it anyway, and he was here, and his lips were surprisingly shy and warm beneath him, and John doubted he’d ever, _ever_ , get enough.

“Thank you for coming,” He murmured again, after pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek this time, just below the smudge of dirt.

“You’re welcome,” he replied in a surprisingly tender tone. He then cleared his throat, and John smirked as he saw the color rise in Sherlock’s cheeks again. “Now stop it. People will talk.”

“Good. Let them.” John kissed Sherlock again, and he made a soft noise of appreciation that made John’s chest ache.

After a moment he heard a bit of paper crinkling below them, then felt something poking him in the side. He parted their lips in order to look down with a furrowed brow, and then burst out laughing at the object in Sherlock’s hand.

“You brought me a granola bar?” John snorted, but his chest was quickly swelling with affection as Sherlock’s face contorted into horror, and then a defensive scowl. He shoved the bar into John’s hand before crossing his arms over his chest.

“You didn’t eat breakfast,” he snapped, and John felt bad that he couldn’t stop laughing. “ _Or_ lunch. You’re no use to anyone if you _faint_ , idiot.” Sherlock’s cheeks were filling in pink again, and John forced himself to swallow the next bout of laughter as he unwrapped the granola bar.

“No, Sherlock. I appreciate it. Really.” He dropped a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, who’s disgruntled frown softened slightly. John pushed half of the granola bar into his mouth as Sherlock looked back to prove that he truly was grateful, and it was Sherlock’s turn to snort at John’s puffed out cheeks as he chewed.

“Idiot,”He mumbled again, smiling. John smiled back the best he could through a mouthful of granola bar.

Once he was able to get the dry food down and gulp down a few mouthfulls of water, John placed the other half of the bar in Sherlock’s lap. “Eat the rest. I’ve got to go, and you didn’t eat anything today either.”

"I had tea."

"For god's sake, that doesn't count as food!"

 

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “John, I never-”

“Sherlock Holmes, eat the rest of that granola bar.” John gave Sherlock a stern look, and the boy grumpily bit off a very small piece of the corner. John grinned at him and ruffled his hair. "Good boy.”

With a scandalized sound Sherlock raised his hands up to fix his hair, “Halftime is almost over, John,” he snapped with a glare, flattening a stubborn curl that John had dared to dislodge from it's place.

John sighed dramatically. “Fine, I suppose I’ll go back.” He smiled down at Sherlock, who looked a bit thrown off balance but still gorgeous as ever, even with with his hair a bit ruffled. “I’ll find you after,” John promised after a moment, and Sherlock nodded slowly before gesturing to the field, waving him away. John rolled his eyes with a chuckle before hopping back and jogging over to where his team mates were huddled on the field.

Usually when John played rugby, the rest of the world disappeared. For all he was concerned there was only the ground beneath his feet, the air in his lungs. Anything outside of this, right here, ceased to exist. But now, for the first time since he’d started playing rugby, it was different.

As the whistle blared once more, everything dissolved into nothingness. His heart beat filled his ears again, everything slowed down to half-speed, but just beyond the fringes of John’s reality he was aware of Sherlock. He was aware of his eyes on him, of his coat wrapped tight around his shoulders. He was aware of Sherlock like a sixth sense. Sight- _goal_ \- smell- _grass_ \- hearing- _heartbeat_ \- taste- _mud_ \- feel- _a heel colliding with his shin-_ Sherlock- _safe_.

With a minute to go, the game tied up. John growled in frustration, running soaked and muddy hands through his hair. It had become a disaster rather quickly. Sebastian, the bloody captain for god’s sake, was benched for having too many fouls. As much as John had enjoyed the look on his face as Sebastian got cut from the group of live players, he was one of the most talented forwards they had.

They were screwed, for lack of a better term.

As they lined up once more, each team divided by the designated line, John turned to look over his shoulder at where Sherlock was sitting. Immediately, the good spirited anger he had for the sake of the match flared up into actual anger, mixed with a bit of cold dread swirling in his gut.

Sebastian wasn’t seated on the bench where he’d been sent. He was beside Sherlock in the bleachers, and even from this distance John could see the sneer, could practically hear his voice. More importantly, though, John could see how Sherlock had gone rigid, leaning ever so slightly away but not getting up to leave. Not speaking. Sebastian’s face was far too close to Sherlock’s, and John felt his fists tightening, heartbeat hammering in his ears-

“JOHN. WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

He heard Victor’s cry far too late. One of the players from the other team ran into John so hard he went skidding across the ground, all the air simultaneously rushing from his lungs. The whistle blew, calling a foul on the opposite team ( _good news for the game, bad news for breathing_ ). He coughed as one of the referees knelt beside him, checking his condition.

“Sher… Sherlock.” John gasped without thinking, trying to turn over, trying to peer through the legs of everyone standing around him, _needing_ to get a view of the bleachers.

“Er, what did he say?” one of the referees asked uncertainly, directed at someone standing above him.

“His boyfriend.” John heard Victor mutter, clearly annoyed by the fact John had completely zoned out, even if it did get them an extra scrum they weren’t counting on. “Are you alright to play or not, Watson?”

John’s lungs had finally started working again. He got to his knees slowly, then to his feet, and from there he was finally able to look past the people standing in his way to see the bleachers.

There was an empty spot where Sherlock had been sitting.

It wasn’t long before he found Sebastian, now seated on the bench where he was supposed to be all along. He was looking right at John, but all John could see of his expression was a smug curl of his upper lip.

John felt his stomach drop, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“ _Watson_ ,” Victor pressed, stepping into his line of sight. John blinked and focused on his face, blood running a few degrees colder than usual. He tried to recall what he’d been asked, feeling conflicted, until Victor so kindly repeated his question in a scathing tone, “Are you alright to play, _or not_?”

John looked to the scoreboard, where a paused _00:52_ was flashing on the timer. Just a minute. It was only a minute, and then he’d find Sherlock. That would be fine. _Sherlock_ would be fine.

With a brisk nod of his head, John stalked off to stand in his position. He tried not to feel guilty, tried not to let the panic grip him, tried to keep the _‘what ifs_ ’ at bay. It was all fine. And although he kept telling himself that, he fumbled the ball as soon as it ended up in his hands, allowing the other team to score a goal before the timer even stuck zero, winning the game.

John didn’t give his teammates time to blame him or throw empty water bottles at him. He didn’t follow them to the locker rooms, even though he was covered head to toe and with mud and sweat and blood that wasn’t all his own. He didn’t need a shower right now, he needed to find Sherlock.

***

 

Sherlock was walking fast, almost running back to his room. He tried to put blockades up against the waterfall of thoughts crashing over him, but the current flooded everything, ruined his mind palace in a crushing tidal wave. A tsunami. Everything was underwater. Can’t breathe, _can’t breathe..._

_Caring is not an advantage._

As soon as he got there, Sherlock shut the door and slammed his body backward against it, tugging at his hair until his ears rung.

_Caring is not an advantage._

Something burned inside Sherlock’s throat. He wanted to rip it out.

_This is what sentiment does. It tears people apart._

Sherlock shut his eyes and threw his head back against the wooden door, skull cracking against it painfully, filling the room with a dull sound. He did it again, and again, until he saw stars dancing behind closed eyelids, but at least he was able to breathe...

_Caring is not an advantage._

 

***

John dashed across campus, streaking through the almost-darkness, and he was once again out of breath by the time he reached Sherlock’s room. Building B, room 221. He practically ran into the door in his rush, stopping just in time and not hesitating at all before pounding a closed fist against it.

“Sherlock, are you in there?” He had just raised a fist to pound on the door again when it swung open, Sherlock standing in the doorway with a furrowed brow. Relief flooded so quickly through his bloodstream that John’s knees felt weak, but it was short lived.

Something was wrong.

Sherlock’s eyes were red rimmed, having turned a dull grey, missing the fire they usually held. John's gaze swept down until he saw actual claw marks criss crossing Sherlock’s throat. With a sinking feeling John realized that they were from Sherlock himself. Sebastian hadn’t touched him.

But that didn’t mean he hadn’t caused this. John knew he had, somehow.

“What did he say to you?” John demanded, voice hard. Sherlock flinched.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about-”

“ _Sherlock_.” John interjected in a calmer tone of voice, giving him a pleading look, “I saw him talking to you. Just tell me what he said. Please.”

Sherlock’s impeccably calm facade dropped briefly, and John’s heart stuttered in his chest. The expression was so open, so raw on Sherlock’s face. A shuddering breath parted his lips but he quickly pursed them, trying to control it. His eyes glinted with an emotion John couldn’t read. Not entirely. Sadness seemed to mild of a word for what he was seeing.

Then, it was gone. The crack in Sherlock’s armor quickly sealed itself, and Sherlock hardened again. Dull eyes stared back at John, slightly more wet than before but still void of emotion. He stepped back into the room and turned, leaving the door open for John to step through.

“Sherlock, that wasn’t an answer.” John pointed out hesitantly, slowly following his path inside. It looked as if a small hurricane had torn through it recently. Papers on the floor, test tubes and petri dishes full of mould on his desk, books half open on nearly every surface. John wondered distractedly if this was what the inside of Sherlock’s head looked like.

He was sitting on the bed now, still not speaking. John sat beside him and looked down at his own hands, clasped tightly in his lap.

“Sherlock-”

“Don’t.”

John turned his head to him, but Sherlock was looking straight forward, jaw clenching and unclenching. John had never heard Sherlock’s voice sound so hostile before, with just one syllable.

John swallowed nervously, but forced himself to say, “Don’t what?”

Sherlock suddenly turned on him. His eyes were definitely wet now, tears brimming at the corners but not overflowing. John’s stomach dropped at the sight, feeling like he’d just been slapped in the face. “Don’t ask, John.” He answered in a raspy, strangled voice.

“But-”

“ _Don’t_ ,” He said again. Sherlock blinked and a single tear streaked down the valleys of his face, over his cheekbone and then dropped off his chin, but his fierce expression never softened. “ _Please_.”

John wanted to ask. He wanted to know what Sebastian possibly could have said to turn Sherlock into this. This grey thing, with hunched shoulders and wet cheeks, when he was usually a vibrant creature all his own. What words could possibly bring Sherlock crashing down this hard?

But there was an arch of Sherlock’s brows, a tightness in his eyes that stopped John short. The questions fled his mind, his lungs emptied of breath. He felt dizzy with concern, and curiosity, but all he could do was raise a gentle hand to Sherlock’s face to wipe away the tear tracks with his thumb, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t flinch away.

And he didn’t.

He shut his eyes and let John swipe the wetness from his face, even though his fingers were still covered with dirt and blades of grass. “Alright.” John murmured, barely audible, “I won’t ask. It’s alright, Sherlock.”

The boy let out a broken breath and opened his eyes to look at John, and he did that thing again where he looked for the lie. Tried to find some small thing to tell him John didn’t mean it, but John wasn’t having it. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock think that, not any more. His eyes were still rapidly moving over John’s face, calculating, when he leaned in and kissed him tenderly, as softly as he could manage, letting out his own broken breath through his nose.

Sherlock whimpered between their lips and suddenly surged forward, opening his mouth against John’s and kissing desperately. John let him. He kissed back, and cupped the side of Sherlock’s face with his dirty hand. He did his best to translate words through his kiss, without actually saying them

_I’m here, Sherlock._

And John had a feeling that if Sherlock's kiss could say anything, it would be _I don’t believe you._

That made his stomach clench painfully. One day, he’d find a way to convince this infuriating boy that he did care. That he was there, and that he wasn’t leaving. But for now all he could do was kiss Sherlock with the words don’t ask bouncing around his head.

“You need a shower.” Sherlock murmured, although he didn’t stop kissing him.

“I know,” John breathed, pulling back a bit, “You should probably have a wash too, since I’ve just rubbed my dirty hands all over your face.”

Sherlock looked uncertain for a moment, raising his eyes up from John’s lips. “We could…wash up together. The shower is big enough.” Sherlock’s hand on John’s hip squeezed, saying don’t leave me alone.

“‘Course we can,” John smiled and ran a thumb soothingly along the inside of Sherlock’s wrist, reaching for his hand. “C’mon.”

 

They walked to the bathroom, getting distracted along the way by lingering kisses and hands slipping under hems of shirts. Eventually, though, they got there and John was slipping Sherlock’s button up from his shoulders, hands sliding evenly over his bare chest. Sherlock lifted John’s jersey over his head, discarding it at their feet, immediately bending down to press delicate kisses across John’s collar bone.

The removal of clothing wasn’t frantic.There was no blinding arousal, no white hot push and pull of skin on skin, mouth on mouth. Their hands moved slowly. They appreciated. Explored. Memorized. Sherlock had a freckle on the side of his neck John hadn’t noticed before, and he had a scars and imperfections, and John pressed his lips to every single one.

It took longer than it should have to actually step into the shower. Not a word had passed between them, just gasps and quiet moans of appreciation, soft noises passed directly between lips and nothing more. Sherlock adjusted the water to the perfect temperature before pushing John into the stream fist, water washing over his face as Sherlock stood behind him, arms slowly winding around his waist.

Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck, pressing kisses along the rivulets of water washing over them both. He kissed just behind John’s ear, lips buzzing with his name, and John let out a shaky breath. Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, pulling their bodies together, Sherlock’s front to John’s back. He could feel Sherlock’s erection pressed against his arse, slick with hot water, and he shuddered as Sherlock bestowed a lingering kiss to the back of John’s neck now, where it met his spine.

“Thank you,” He murmured, his voice sounding slurred through the water on his lips.

“For what?” John asked quietly, but he never got an answer. Sherlock’s arms slid downward until one of his hands found John’s cock, and he jumped at the contact. Sherlock’s movements were slow, almost worshipful. He dipped his head to kiss the top of John’s shoulder, the side of his neck, the back of his hair line. He breathed against the back of John’s ear as his fist tightened around him, and he groaned, unable to stifle it.

John pushed back against Sherlock’s body so he could feel his cock pressed perfectly between his arse cheeks. He moaned at the sudden mental image of Sherlock fucking him against the shower wall, water raining down on them, pouring over Sherlock’s pale skin. John shut his eyes and indulged himself, picturing the way Sherlock’s face would look as he came, John bent over, cheek skidding against the cool tile, nails digging into the spaces between…

He could feel the orgasm creeping up on his suddenly, not taking long with that mental image searing through his mind. Sherlock’s hand was moving a bit faster now, but it was all still slow, still appreciative, and Sherlock’s kisses were being dropped along his vertebrae now. He kissed as low along John’s spine as he could while remaining upright, the trail ending between his shoulder blades before moving back up. John threw his head back and Sherlock brought his forward, over John’s shoulder so he could kiss John’s jaw, his cheek, hand picking up speed as he spoke for the first time since they got in the shower.

“John… John… _John_.”

He felt Sherlock grab himself now, and John moaned at the feeling of Sherlock’s knuckles sliding over his arse as he fisted his own erection, stroking in time with the hand on John’s. They breathed heavy against each other, through the water spraying from their mouths. John turned his head to the side, desperately seeking Sherlock’s lips and they were there, just as desperate, kissing him and swallowing John’s cry as the orgasm tore through him unexpectedly. Sherlock came seconds later, and through his haze John tried to differentiate the warm water from the semen dripping down his back, but he couldn’t.

With a beautiful broken sound Sherlock simply wrapped his arms back around John’s torso, breathing heavily, clinging to him in that same way he had the first time he’d come for John in his bed. John dipped his head to kiss the fingers splayed across his chest, sighing softly with each one.

Slowly, John untangled Sherlock’s arms, who protested slightly until he saw that John was reaching for the shampoo. He turned around to face Sherlock, taking in the wet curls flattened against his head, and he looked so _goddamn beautiful_ that John had to take a moment to just breathe.

After a moment he silently filled his hand with shampoo and brought it to the top of Sherlock’s head, who had bent it forward for John’s fingers to easily push through his hair. He massaged the shampoo until it was a white foam, fingers kneading and pulling at knots gently. His touch was delicate, carding through Sherlock’s curls and he relaxed beneath John’s fingertips. His eyes were shut and he leaned into John’s touch, sighing softly every once in a while when John’s pinkies would tuck behind his ears, or his thumb would run over his temples. After his hair had been washed thoroughly John let his soapy palms slide down Sherlock’s neck, his shoulders, down his arms until their fingers intertwined.

“C’mere.” he said quietly, tugging Sherlock’s hands so he would take his place in the stream of hot water. John pushed the suds away from Sherlock’s eyes, watching it flow down his back and shoulders as the boy tipped his head backward. If he wouldn’t get a mouthful of foam John would have a hard time not kissing Sherlock’s neck, arched and taut as the shampoo rushed over it. He kneaded his fingers until every trace of white was gone and Sherlock opened his eyes, irises turning a warm green color in the dim light of the shower. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes, clumping them together, and John whispered, “You’re amazing.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, but it didn’t quite erase the sadness that carried on from earlier. John leaned forward until his forehead rested against Sherlock’s, water pouring down both their faces and falling in a conjoined stream, hitting their knees as it fell.

“You are an enigma, John Watson.”

“An enigma?” John pushed their noses together, which tipped water over his lips.

“Yes. You’re a mystery to me. I… don’t understand you.” Sherlock’s voice was subdued, as if it was a difficult thing for him to admit.

“Does that make me special?” John dared to ask is a whisper, throat feeling tight. He pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s lips, closing his eyes.

“I don’t know, maybe.” He murmured in return, kissing back before bending down to get the bottle of shampoo himself. On his way back up he pressed his lips briefly to John’s collar bone, then stepped back to tip the shampoo into his cupped hand.

He washed John’s hair and it was a glorious feeling, the way Sherlock’s long fingers seemed to multiply until there were twenty of them, massaging into John’s scalp expertly. John barely noticed the minutes passing, enjoying the sensation far too much, and before he knew it Sherlock was leading him to trade places once again and rinsing the foam from his head. His eyes were still closed after his hair at run clean, and Sherlock reached around him to shut the water off.

They dried each other off, John all too eager to run a towel through Sherlock’s hair so it would return to it’s springy curls. Sherlock slipped into some pajama pants, John put on his plaid boxers because that’s all he had that wasn’t a muddy rugby uniform, and they ended up side by side in bed.

“Sherlock?” John asked through the silence, turning his head to look at him, a few inches away on another pillow.

“Yes, John?” He sounded tired. Exhausted, even, and John didn’t think he’d ever heard Sherlock sound like that before.

“Will you ever tell me what he said?” He forced his voice to remain only slightly curious, even though his core physically ached with the desire to know.

John was expecting Sherlock to tense, but the boy’s eyes simply fell shut and he sighed, and somehow that was worse. John was hit with a sudden wave of guilt, and he wished he hadn’t said anything.

Sherlock’s voice was barely there as he mumbled, “It’s not important.”

“It is to me,” John immediately countered, far too quickly.

Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, but John saw his jaw tighten. He said nothing, instead rolling over toward John  and he somehow got one arm arm underneath him, pulling him close against his bare chest. The other arm came around to encase him, one of Sherlock’s endless legs came between his own, and they were immediately hopelessly tangled in a heap of blankets and limbs.

Sherlock wasn’t relaxed, though, John realized suddenly. The arms around him held him close, Sherlock’s face buried into his neck, he leg hooked around John’s knee. He might as well have been screaming in John’s ear: _please stay._

John pressed a kiss to the forearm which was draped over his chest and murmured “Hey, it’s alright,” without even thinking about it. It just seemed like the right thing to say. A sigh fluttered out over John’s neck at his words, and he felt Sherlock relax a little against him, arms flexing around John’s body once more. John was reminded of a small child, seeking any sort of comfort, especially when Sherlock’s fingers tightened on his shoulder.

He turned slightly in Sherlock’s embrace so he could reach an arm over his bare side, fingers tracing light patterns across his skin. He traced over each of Sherlock’s ribs, up over the curve of his shoulder, down between his shoulder blades. With each quiet moment that passed Sherlock’s muscles began to relax, one by one as John traced over them, as if his touch were responsible for the sudden calamity.

Perhaps it was.

With that thought in mind John pressed his palm flat to Sherlock’s back and pulled him closer against him, and the boy sighed once more, this time ducking his head down to nuzzle against John’s temple, the motion small and almost shy. John closed his eyes as Sherlock’s cheek came to rest on top of his head, completely surrounded but Sherlock’s body. There was hardly a part of him that wasn’t touching the other boy, and that was okay.

That was perfect.

John continued to run his hand up and down Sherlock’s back in comforting semi circles until he heard the boy’s breath finally start to even out, and he went heavier and heavier against John, mouth breathing soft and warm into his hair. Sherlock’s fingers curled and uncurled sleepily until John placed his free hand in it, intertwining their fingers, and with one last breath Sherlock seemed to drift off to sleep.

“Sherlock.” John whispered softly into his chest, eyes still closed, “You asleep?”

His only answer was a weak, subconscious squeeze of fingers. John smiled and nuzzled against Sherlock’s check, finally letting the hand on Sherlock’s back come to rest.

Eventually, Sherlock’s even breaths and the heat of his arms and legs around John began to pull him slowly toward sleep. Even if there was something wrong, even if John kept remembering the wetness in Sherlock’s eyes, even if he didn’t know what had caused any of it, somehow drifting off in Sherlock’s arms made things seem alright. At least for now.

He was nearly asleep when he heard a voice from above him, “ _J’hn_...”

He hummed sleepily  in response, running his hand up and down Sherlock’s back just once, to remind him he was there. That he hadn’t left.

But then, it became very, painfully obvious Sherlock was deeply asleep. He had to be, because John knew Sherlock would never consciously choose to say something so blunt. Something so vulnerable.

Sherlock’s hand squeezed John’s again briefly as he whispered, _“Please don't change your mind...”_

John’s eyes fluttered open just as Sherlock’s hand went limp again. He actually felt something crack apart in his chest, splintering off to sink deep in his muscle tissue. He looked down at Sherlock’s hand lying still against his, and squeezed lightly at his index finger. His brow furrowed, because he didn't quite understand. Change his mind about what? After a moment, even though Sherlock was fast asleep, face nuzzled once more into the top of his head, John  whispered sadly, “Don’t worry, I won't.”

And whatever that meant, he meant it. His mind was made up about Sherlock, and he couldn't change it even if he wanted to.

After that his eyes seemed to refuse to stay closed. He had a very hard time getting anywhere near sleep again until grey light of morning began to filter through the crack in Sherlock’s curtains, and exhaustion pushed him into a restless slumber.

He dreamed about Sherlock’s hands, reaching out to him, but no matter how hard he stretched he couldn’t reach.

It was one of the worst nightmares he’d ever had.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, you'll find out what Sebastian said! Eventually... ;)
> 
> Sorry (not sorry) for the cliffhanger.
> 
> I will update as soon as possible my lovelies<3 Comments are welcomed and encouraged, as always :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: PLEASE READ THIS
> 
> Okay, so I really hope everyone reads this because I have a few important things to say.
> 
> 1\. I'm so sorry for how long it took to update. I have been very busy with getting ready for my first year of college, but you have all been wonderfully patient, and for that I thank you <3
> 
> 2\. MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR BULLYING/VIOLENCE TRIGGERS IN THE CHAPTER. I'm not going to go into specifics, because spoilers, but yeah. You've been warned.
> 
> 3\. I CHANGED SOMETHING IN THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER. If you read chapter 4 when I FIRST published it, I changed what Sherlock mumbled in his sleep from, "Don't leave, John." to "Please don't change your mind." THIS IS ACTUALLY IMPORTANT TO THE STORY, SO THAT IS WHY I'M MENTIONING IT HERE.
> 
> Sorry for all the caps lock. You may carry on your reading now, and as always I love feedback, so review or message me on tumblr (queen-mxcroft.tumblr.com) to let my know what you think <333

By the time John began walking to rugby practice the next day, his blood was boiling. He hadn’t had a chance to feel it; the sheer, white hot rage burning just beneath the surface. Not until now, anyway. He’d been too distracted with Sherlock, and those eyes he barely recognized without their usual light. He hadn’t had room to think about anything but holding him against his chest all night, feeling his breath against the side of his neck and wondering what he ever did to deserve such beautifully tragic moment.

His bag swung erratically at his side, straps digging into his shoulder, hard edges bumping against his knees. John couldn’t feel it. He had his eyes fixed on the fitness building, jaw set, nothing but angry static humming in his head.

He stalked straight past the gym, past the tennis courts, and past the studio without even looking inside. Sherlock wouldn’t be there today, he knew. Which was good. He’d only try to stop him.

The doors of the locker room slammed open, causing a metallic sound to echo through the room. A few of the boys looked up to see John in the doorway, chest heaving, face slightly blotchy. The silence that followed was thick as his teammates glanced at each other with apprehension.

“Where is he?” John snarled, eyes darting from each of the boy’s faces.

“Who?” One of them finally asked when no one else seemed keen to.

“Sebastian. Where the _fuck_ is he?”

The boy who had answered him swallowed nervously before jerking a thumb to his right, toward another cluster of lockers. Without another word John stalked over and rounded the corner, to find Sebastian sitting on the bench with an infuriatingly casual smirk on his face.

John simply stood there and breathed for a moment, not entirely trusting himself not to wrap his hands around the boy’s neck.

“John, I thought you might be paying me a visit.” He looked up from tying his shoe, smirk widening into a sneer.

“Shut up.” John snapped in response.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow as if it was a surprise to see John so angry “Is there a problem?” He asked nonchalantly, with a slight tilt of his head.

His voice, filled with faux innocence and just one infuriating octave too high, made John’s knuckles itch in anticipation. Somehow he managed to keep his fists at his sides, clenched and bone white, and his voice even as he said, “I have several problems with you, Sebastian.” The words came out deep and gravelly, almost surprising John. They parted from somewhere in his ribcage, right beside where he could feel the molten rage pumping from his heart, through his veins. “What did you say to him?”

Sebastian chuckled, but his expression turned dark. “I have no idea-”

“Oh come _OFF_ it!” John roared, the sudden outburst rattling off the walls of the locker room and causing murmurs from behind the barrier of lockers to their right. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to reign himself back in, only succeeding in making the tight feeling coiling in his chest even worse, like pressing down on a steel spring.

After a few moments of clenching and unclenching his jaw and staying silent in an attempt to calm himself down, John spoke again. He voice was twisted, like warped metal, the calm words clawing and scratching their way out of his throat, wanting to be shouted but John held them back, kept his voice steady as he said, “I saw you talking to him, at the match,” His tone was still deadly, and Sebastian actually did show a brief flicker of concern. “I saw you talking to him, and then he was gone and you- whatever you said...” John shut his eyes tight and sucked in another sharp breath in through his nose, remembering the red rims around Sherlock’s eyes, the claw marks…

“Tell me what you said, Sebastian. _Now_ ,” he demanded.

Sebastian gave him a pitying look that made John nauseous. “You mean, he didn’t _tell_ you?” His lips parted in mock concern, but his eyes shone with amusement. John didn’t open his own mouth, teeth grinding against each other, actually afraid of what he might say in this moment. He simply shook his head sharply no.

Sebastian uncrossed his leg from where he’d been tying his laces and laughed lightly, getting to his feet. John’s hands were actually burning with the desire to hit him now. The boy took a step forward and sneered again, his voice slick and quiet, “You really want to know what I said to him?”

“Yes, I do.” John bit out, glaring at Sebastian who took another step toward him. Out of the corner of his eye John saw a few boys peek their heads around the corner, watching curiously.

“I told your _boyfriend_ the truth.” Sebastian stopped walking now, and John couldn’t help but notice he was well within his swinging range. Close enough for John to smell the too-thin layer of deodorant on him. Sebastian’s mouth was still a lopsided grin as he continued, “I told him that he’s a _freak_.” A bit of spit flew out from Sebastian’s teeth as he put hissing emphasis on the ‘ _f_ ’ in freak, and John realised how much he hated that word.

That couldn’t be it, though. Sherlock was called that almost every day, much to John’s chargin. They throw the name at his back in the halls, and not just the rugby team, it was everyone. John would whip around in search of the culprit, but Sherlock would never even bat an eye. One time it was even scratched into his locker, _f-r-e-a-k_ , and Sherlock barely seven seemed to notice, while John seethed beside him. No, being called a freak would never affect Sherlock as strongly as it had last night. There had to be more to it, so John simply hardened his expression and tilted his chin downward, urging Sebastian to give him the full story.

After a few moments, eyes glinting with a dangerous light, Sebastian did continue. “I told him that he may have found someone willing to overlook that, but not for long.” He looked John up and down, as if sizing him up. As if being that ‘someone’ who found Sherlock amazing was disgraceful. John popped a few of his knuckles subconsciously and watched as Sebastian’s murky brown eyes finally met his again, and he went on. “I told him that everyone gets sick of putting up with him eventually.” He leaned down, practically begging for John to knock his teeth out as his lip curved upward and revealed the top row, “I told him it was only a matter of time before you _changed your mind_.”

The rage pumping through John’s veins froze suddenly. The cold came from the inside out, causing the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he was unable to control a small intake of breath. It was as if those words hit him in the gut.

The memory of Sherlock nuzzling into his hair, fast asleep, and breathing even and slow suddenly assaulted his mind. Sherlock’s relaxed hand in his and the feeling of his sleepy lips moving against his hairline as he murmured, _'Please don’t change your mind._ '

_Oh, Sherlock._

The frozen feeling quickly thawed away as the memory flashed and then was gone. John’s vision went suddenly red, and the next thing he knew he was pushing Sebastian up against the lockers with his elbow to the boy’s throat. “How _dare_ you.” John spat through gritted teeth, pushing harder against Sebastian’s windpipe as he struggled, “How _fucking dare_ you.”

Sebastian coughed uncomfortably, eyes shifting down to his constricted airway then back up to John’s face. After the initial shock wore off, John couldn’t believe it, but the boy actually managed to sneer. He chuckled through his sputtering, even though his eyes looked vaguely horrified, “I was just… telling ‘im... how it is.”

“That is _not_ how it is!” John roared, rattling Sebastian against the lockers.

Sebastian laughed again, sounding strangled. After a moment his face began to turn a questionable shade of red, so John fisted his hands in the boy’s jersey instead because he didn’t want to become a murderer today, and Sebastian gasped eagerly for breath. John didn’t give him long to recover, though. He slammed Sebastian’s back against the metal wall of locker doors so hard his head knocked backward into them and he hissed in pain, forcing the amusement from his expression.

“I’ve known him for years.” Sebastian spat, eyes turning dark. Most of their team mates were looking on now, a ripple of whispers passing throughout the room. “Everyone _hates_ him,” he added, venom practically dripping off the words.

“Well I don’t.” John snarled back, tightening his grip on the jersey.

Sebastian’s sneer was back in place suddenly, but it was more sinister this time. There was an unmistakable edge of pity in his eyes, and John hated it. He absolutely hated that look, because he had it wrong. They, everyone, had it wrong about Sherlock. The silence was deafening after the shouting and clanging of lockers, the room only filled now with Sebastian’s labored breathing and the murmurs from their growing audience.

“You will.” Sebastian finally replied, his voice low and confident. He sounded so sure of himself that John blinked a few times, feeling thrown off. “I promise you, he’ll change your mind for you-”

“No,” John shook his head, and the confidence in his voice surpassed Sebastian’s, unwavering and sure. However, the boy continued as if John hadn’t spoken.

“- because he’s a bloody _psychopath_. He’s not _normal_. He doesn’t _care_ about people, and for god’s sake, if he wasn’t weird enough the kid is a _ballerina_ -”

“Shut up.” John’s voice was murderous now, and it stopped Sebastian’s sentence in it’s tracks.

“Or what, are you going to hit me? Defend Sherly’s honor?”

Turns out, that’s exactly what John did.

It all happened so quickly. His mind seemed to be several seconds behind his body, struggling to catch up. John’s vision shifted to crimson again and then his knuckles were throbbing painfully, and Sebastian’s face was smeared with red. His mind finally caught up, a few seconds late, and he registered the crack that had rung through the air as his fist collided with Sebastian’s face. He rubbed at his knuckles, smearing a few drops of blood there, and watched as Sebastian turned on him, slightly doubled over, with wide, shocked eyes. The rest of the locker room had erupted into noise, ranging from laughter to gasps, but John couldn’t make out any individual words through his haze of anger. It was all just a roar of background noise behind the blood rushing in his ears, and the echo of Sebastian’s words; ' _freak', 'psychopath', 'he’s not normal.'_

It took a few moments for the shock on Sebastian’s face to wear off, but then it was replaced with furious rage. The boy actually roared, loud and animalistic, before two strong hands reached out and grabbed John’s shoulders, and before he could even react Sebastian was driving a knee into his sternum with another thunderous shout. John instantly found his knees giving way, and he crumbled to the floor, gasping but unable to draw in a breath. He shut his eyes tight as his knees and shins hit the cement and he doubled over, clutching at his torso and making strangled sounds as his lungs refused to fill.

He hadn’t even managed to get a single breath in before another sharp blow hit him somewhere in the side, and he recognized the object as the hard tip of a rugby cleat. He cried out involuntarily, using the last of his oxygen and as much as he tried to stay upright, the blow caused him to fall to the side, gasping.

There was laughter coming from all sides it seemed, and Sebastian stepped over him on his way out. “Don’t bother coming out onto the field, Watson. You’ll be benched for the next game anyway.” John was sure he heard a few people muttering ‘faggot’ on their way out, but there was no way to be certain over the sound of his ragged breathing against the floor.

John had never understood the term ‘blinding pain’ until this moment. Spots obscured his vision long after he regained control of his lungs, and he realised he was shaking as he attempted to get into a sitting position. He had just gotten his back to rest against the lockers when he heard footsteps coming back up the hall, and he tensed. Was Sebastian coming back in? Had this not been enough for him?

The footsteps grew louder, and then a familiar voice called his name, though it was quieter and more afraid than he’d ever heard it. “John?”

The sound of Sherlock’s voice made John’s chest swell with sudden appreciation. If there was anyone in the world he wanted to see right now, it was Sherlock. Always Sherlock, and he was here, for some reason. John could have sobbed from relief. He wanted to, in fact, but the only sound he could make in response was a breathless, “Over here.”

He turned his head as Sherlock came around the corner. He looked frantic, chest heaving as if he’d just run across campus- which, John reminded himself, he probably did. His mouth twitched upward slightly at the sight of Sherlock, his hair wild and his eyes wide.

“What are you doing here?” John asked softly, still a bit breathless and the corners of his lips still slightly upturned.

Sherlock did not look amused, however, and John’s grin quickly faded. He furrowed his brow and asked again when Sherlock remained silent, “Sherlock? What-?”

“I knew you’d do something stupid.” He snapped, cutting John off and he was shocked when the boy suddenly dropped to his knees beside him on the floor. He couldn’t decide whether Sherlock was afraid or angry, or perhaps both. “What did he do to you?” Sherlock asked, his voice surprisingly soft, and John’s chest constricted at the tone. It was raw and quiet, and so unlike Sherlock. Far too much like the way his voice had sounded the night before.

John shook his head and replied, “Sherlock, I’m okay-”

“John.” The boy cut him off again, his voice harder this time, his eyes pleading and turning an almost seafoam green in color. Sherlock’s face was still shifting between fear and indignation, as if he couldn’t decide what to feel, and when he spoke again a moment later his voice was quiet and urgent, looking up at John through his lashes. “Tell me what he did.”

John sighed and leaned his head backward against the lockers. “He just knocked the wind out of me, and I think he kicked me once.” Curiously, John prodded his side where he thought he’d been kicked. He hissed in pain when he found the right spot, and to his horror Sherlock’s flinched beside him.

“No, Sherlock. It’s fine, just a bit sore,” he assured him, because it was the truth. Sherlock looked about ready to break apart, and John wanted no part in that. “Look, see, I’ll show you.” Sherlock stayed silent as John tugged his jersey off over his head, tossing it over a bench and on the floor. He twisted where he sat so Sherlock could see his side, which was an angry shade of red, but nothing more.

However, it might as well have been a gaping wound, the way Sherlock was looking at it. He reached out with shaky finger tips and just barely ghosted over the forming bruise, but John wasn’t watching that. His eyes were locked on Sherlock’s face, trying to decipher what was going on in that brilliant head of his.

He nearly jumped when Sherlock spoke, his voice slicing through the silence that had fallen between them. His eyes were still on John’s side, his fingers skating across the abraded skin as he said, “You shouldn’t have done anything, John.”

And then it clicked. The puzzle pieces fell together, and John clenched his jaw as the jagged edges of realization pushed into his chest. He untwisted himself so he could look Sherlock better in the eye, and the boy looked startled at the sudden repositioning. John made sure he was gentle as he grabbed Sherlock’s face in his hands and asked, “Do you think this was your fault?”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, eyes darting between John’s and looking far too wet, but he stayed silent.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, stroking his thumbs over Sherlock’s cheekbones soothingly, “answer me. Do you think this was your fault?”

Sherlock drew in a shaky breath and answered, “It _is_ , John.”

John felt a familiar cold feeling creeping back through his veins and he shook his head, letting his hands slide down from Sherlock’s head to the tops of his shoulders where he held firm. “Sherlock. God, _no_. This is nothing close to your fault. Come here.” He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back and tugged him close, in an embrace that should have been awkward while they both knelt on the floor, but wasn’t. Sherlock’s face buried into his neck and his own arms came up to clutch John’s shoulders. After a moment he felt Sherlock's lips pressed briefly to his collar bone. The fleeting kiss felt achingly vulnerable for some reason, soon replaced with just the feeling of Sherlock’s breath over his skin, and John ran his hand up and down his spine comfortingly.

“Listen to me, you brilliant moron,” John let out a breathy laugh and kissed Sherlock’s temple, happy to feel an unmistakable smirk against his neck for a moment. “You are amazing,” he murmured, “and I’d take a thousand kicks and punches for you, okay?”

Sherlock nuzzled deeper into John’s neck and mumbled, “I don’t want that.”

“I know you don’t. Just like I don’t ever want to see you hurt either.” The reference to last night went unspoken, because both of them knew what John meant. John patted Sherlock’s shoulder playfully, trying to diffuse a bit of tension and whispered, “I got a punch in too, you know.”

“I do know,” Sherlock retorted shortly, but there was a bit of hesitant amusement in his voice, “And you’re an idiot.”

John pulled back so he could look at Sherlock properly, a warm smile curving his lips as he asked incredulously, “How am I an idiot?”

Sherlock’s returning smile was tentative, but charming all the same, and only served to make John’s grin grow wider. “You hit with the wrong knuckles,” Sherlock explained, reaching down to take John’s bruised hand in his, stroking his thumb over the swollen surface. He tapped his fingers over his first two knuckles softly, which were less bruised than the others, and murmured, “You’re meant to hit with these. Hurts him more, hurts you less.”

Slowly, Sherlock raised John’s hand to his mouth and kissed along the bruised parts, and then along the not-so-bruised parts, simply resting his lips against every surface of John’s hand. John let out a breath and watched, transfixed, as Sherlock’s lips moved over his mangled knuckles, soft like velvet, his breath warm and comforting. He turned John’s hand over and pressed a kiss to his open palm, and then his wrist, and John could feel the tip of Sherlock’s tongue trace along the pulse point there, where his it had sped up.

“I’m glad you’re alright, John,” He whispered against his wrist, then lowered it back down between them, still hooked onto John’s injured fingers.

“Of course I’m alright,” John replied, his voice equally quiet, the smallest of smiles still on his face. He cupped Sherlock’s jaw, glad to see how much he’d calmed down, and tugged him forward for a kiss. They both inhaled through their nose, Sherlock’s breath sounding a bit more desperate, and John’s relieved. It was always a comfort to have Sherlock’s lips against his, like slipping into bed after the longest day of his life.

And then, suddenly, Sherlock latched onto John’s bottom lip not with his own lips, but with his teeth. John made a startled sound, not at all discouraging, but it was muffled as Sherlock sealed their lips again. John’s mind was lagging, not expecting to be snogged senseless on the locker room floor, but he caught up fast and returned the kiss with his own enthusiasm.

Sherlock’s tongue stole into John’s mouth, past his parted lips, and John knew that he’d done it on purpose. Sherlock knew it was one of the things that drove him absolutely mad, the taste of Sherlock, being able to hollow out his cheeks and push back with his own tongue, fighting for dominance. They both made a desperate sound as John did just that. Sherlock pushed against him until John was leaning back against the lockers again, and Sherlock had to get onto his hands and knees to keep from breaking the kiss, crawling forward until he could straddle John’s lap.

“No one has ever…” Sherlock panted, the beginning of a sentence lost to another scorching kiss, seemingly forgotten by him, but not by John.

“Ever what, Sherlock?” he asked, equally breathless, tilting his head up and following Sherlock as the boy nipped at his bottom lip, pulling him forward.

“Nobody has ever done something… like that… for me…” Sherlock gasped the words out, and suddenly rocked his hips down and against John’s pelvis. John groaned loudly, the thin material of his rugby shorts allowing him to feel every detail of Sherlock’s trousers, including his own erection sliding against his.

“Of course I’d do that for you.” John growled, pulling Sherlock back down by the nape of his neck, kissing him deeply and needily. The kiss was adrenaline fueled, brimming with desperation and unspoken words and god, Sherlock’s shirt was rubbing against John’s bare chest, buttons scraping across his over sensitive nipples causing him to groan into Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop himself.

The boy took the hint easily, because it was Sherlock, and he brought his hands up to John’s chest, purposefully thumbing over his nipples. John arched into the too fleeting touch. “Sher-Sherlock…” He panted, and Sherlock’s thumbs returned with a vengeance, pushing harder. The near choking sound John made should have embarrassed him, but he was too distracted by Sherlock’s fingers twisting and teasing him.

His eyes rolled back as they fluttered closed, head falling to the side against the lockers. A moment later he jumped, and actually cried out as Sherlock’s mouth replaced one of his hands without warning. “Christ, Sherlock… you’re amazing,” He breathed, a hand coming up to fist in Sherlock’s curls as the boy’s tongue darted over his nipple, teasing the peak. “Brilliant… beautiful… you’re bloody, _ah_ , you’re extraordinary…”

Sherlock’s mouth was suddenly gone from John’s chest and they were kissing again, his tongue sliding along the seam John’s lips. “Did you know you do that out loud?” He practically growled, biting John’s lip again and slowly letting it slide from between his teeth.

“Sorry,” John murmured, feeling a blush rising in his cheeks despite himself.

“No it’s… fine.” Sherlock replied, and then he bent to kiss John gently. John made a soft sound of appreciation at the contrast to the desperate snogging from before, which was all fine, but this was John’s favorite way to kiss Sherlock. Savoring his swollen lips, tongues moving slow against each other, noses nudging together. It was so chaste and sweet, and a reminder of how many different things Sherlock could be, and that each and every single one of them was perfect.

“You’re wearing too many clothes again,” John finally pointed out with a soft chuckle, undoing the first button of Sherlock’s shirt, and the boy shivered beneath him in agreement. “Why’s it always me who ends up getting stripped first, hm?”

John never received the answer to that question, however. They both froze rigid as the sound of a door being thrown open echoed around the room. Sherlock lurched backward off of John clumsily, falling against one of the benches and hitting the back of his head against it. John flinched but had no time to be concerned, as a pair of footsteps was rapidly approaching them

John scrambled to his feet, surprised his legs were working at all since they felt like jelly. Quickly, he hauled Sherlock up to a standing position. “Come here,” he hissed, and basically manhandled Sherlock across the room and threw them both into one of the locker room showers, sliding the curtain closed around them. As soon as they were inside he turned the water on, despite half their clothes still being in place. Sherlock looked about ready to cry out in surprise, so John hastily pinned him against the tiled wall and pressed his hand against Sherlock’s mouth, putting a single finger to his lips, signaling _‘shhhh.’_

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and terrified over the top of John’s hand, his nostrils flaring as he sucked a breath in through his nose.The water was slowly soaking both of them, Sherlock’s maroon shirt turning dark and clinging to his skin. John definitely began to question his mental state when his cock twitched in his trousers at the sight, because now was really not the time, but he blamed it entirely on the adrenaline.

Just before the footsteps rounded their corner, John realised his mistake.

_Their feet._

Sherlock was in dressy trousers and, christ, he still had on his bloody posh shoes. Anyone would be able to tell there was something suspicious going on if they saw John’s bare feet paired with Sherlock’s.

Without a word of explanation, John let go of Sherlock’s mouth, hoping he’d have the common sense to stay quiet, and dipped down to lift Sherlock up by the backs of his legs. Sherlock was light, which didn’t surprise John at all, and it wasn’t hard to lift him up until his knees were tucked beneath his armpits.

Sherlock seemed to get the idea after a moment, and John was infinitely grateful for Sherlock’s ballet for yet another reason. Sherlock hooked his ankles behind John’s back and pulled him closer, his back braced against the wall and John instinctively grabbed at Sherlock’s arse to hold him up, not that he needed much help. Sherlocks muscles were all pulled tant under the strain of keeping himself upright, and John realised he was hardly doing any of the lifting.

He lifted his eyes up to Sherlock’s, whose were still wide and apprehensive, but there was an unmistakable haze or arousal surrounding them now, and the corner of his mouth quirked up as the lapsed into silence, listening for any other sounds.

Evidently they had just been in time, because the footsteps rounded the corner at that exact moment and John could see the faintest of shadows, indicating another person in the room. Obviously it had just been a teammate who’d left something behind, and he was noisily opening the lockers closest to the showers. John felt like he couldn’t breath.

Sherlock’s hands flexed anxiously on John’s shoulders, and he turned his head back up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. They were both soaked through by now. Sherlock’s curls had gone flat against his head, and as always, John thought it was a lovely sight. Droplets clung to the boy’s dark lashes, dripping off onto his slightly heaving chest and along his lips. If he could reach, John would have kissed him, but instead he settled for risking letting go of Sherlock with one hand to reach up and brush a curl from his eyes, trying to communicate silently, _it’s going to be alright, I promise._

Sherlock seemed to understand and he nodded, though that didn’t stop him from tensing when a voice that didn’t belong to either of them broke the silence.

“Oi, Anderson! Hurry up, for once in your useless life!”

It was Sebastian, calling from the entrance, and Sherlock’s fingers curled, painfully pinching John’s shoulders. He looked up, expecting to see an afraid expression on Sherlock’s face, but instead he saw sparks practically flying from the boy’s eyes. He shifted in John’s arms, glaring through the shower curtain, and John had to push Sherlock up harder against the wall to remind him of the position they were in.

Sherlock’s gaze switched down to John, and he was momentarily struck breathless at the expression on Sherlock’s face. Of course it wasn’t directed at him, rather at Sebastian, yet it still made John’s insides turn icy to see it all the same. Sherlock’s jaw was locked, his eyes hard and sharp, like shards of ice sparkling in the dim glow of the showers. He looked positively murderous, and part of John felt inappropriately happy that Sherlock would turn so savage simply because someone had hurt him.

However, the happiness was subdued considerably with the very real, and terrifying, possibility of Sherlock bursting out of the shower, sopping wet, and doing god knows what to Sebastian.

So, since the only reachable part of Sherlock's body to John’s mouth was his knee, still covered by soaked trousers, John leaned sideways and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. He closed his eyes and let a slightly wet breath out, pulling back only to press another kiss a little further down. It was meant to be comforting as much as it was meant to show his gratitude, a silent _thank you_ , for caring this much, but _it’s okay._

John had no idea when him and Sherlock had formed the ability to have entire conversations through touch alone, but it was as if Sherlock heard the John’s reassurance loud as day, even though he hadn’t said anything at all. He could feel Sherlock relax even further as he pressed a third kiss down a bit lower his leg now, trailing toward his groin. Sherlock’s heels between John’s shoulder blades dug in and pulled him closer, and some part of John’s mind marvelled at Sherlock’s flexibility and strength as his knees bent at an impossible angle, allowing John head to slide further and further between his legs…

The shower suddenly felt overly hot on his heated skin, and for some ridiculous reason knowing that Anderson was just on the other side of the shower curtain, mumbling profanities about Sebastian being a wanker, made everything even hotter still. Steam billowed around him and Sherlock’s bodies, and John was almost startled with how badly he wished he could just reach a little further, and his mouth could wrap around-

“ANDERSON!” Sebastian roared again, this time closer, and Sherlock jumped violently in John’s arms. Instinctively John raised an arm up to cup over Sherlock’s mouth again, even though he hadn’t made a sound. When he looked up John was once again greeted with an expression that was equal parts anger and fear.

With a mischievous grin, John decided it couldn’t hurt to supply Sherlock with a distraction.

He leaned to the side and bit into Sherlock’s thigh the best he could through the material of his trousers, just hard enough to be a bit teasing, and was rewarded with a short intake of breath through Sherlock’s nose. John looked up and pressed his index finger to his lips again, ' _shhh_ ', and was delighted to see Sherlock’s pupils blown wide, his expression shifting to hungry rather than petrified.

Somehow, John twisted his free arm around Sherlock’s leg and cupped his erection from underneath just as Anderson snapped back to Sebastian, “I’m coming, arsehole. Give me a moment.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut as a delicious shudder went through his body, and John grinned a bit proudly. He squeezed the outline of Sherlock’s cock the best he could, feeling himself fill out in his clingy rugby shorts, and Sherlock sank his teeth desperately into the heel of John’s hand.

It probably should have hurt, because it was far from a gentle bite, however John had a hard time suppressing his own moan.

From the other side of the curtain John heard the sound of paper being ripped from a notebook, but couldn’t bring himself to be curious as Sherlock ground his hips down against his hand, nearly toppling them over. John pressed his hand harder against Sherlock’s groin in warning, which didn’t actually help as it only made Sherlock do it again, and John’s own erection throbbed again at the desperation in his eyes.

“Make it believable, Anderson,” They heard Sebastian call out once more, though he’d clearly moved back to the exit, and once again John found himself not caring what it meant as he felt Sherlock’ tongue glide between his first and second finger. He watched the pink tip of it poke out between them, sliding up, and allowed Sherlock to take the finger into his mouth once he reached the tip of it, and John’s knees nearly gave out.

He turned his hand so Sherlock could slowly sink his mouth down until his lips nearly overlapped his knuckles, before moving slowly back up again. John was torn between maintaining Sherlock’s searing eye contact as he hollowed his cheeks out and swirled his tongue, or instead watching his pale pink lips glide up and down, imagining what they might look like doing that to an entirely different part of his body. He let out a shaky breath as Sherlock swirled his tongue again, because god that would feel so good, and John just knew he’d be so good at this, sucking him off, he’d learn so quickly…

John clamped his mouth shut to stifle a groan, and Sherlock smirked around his finger, using that unfairly talented tongue to curl it to the roof of his mouth.

There was a distant sound of a pen scratching against paper now, and more annoyed grumbling from Anderson, but John was too focused on the sensation of hot water running down his back while Sherlock tortured him with this agonizing visual. John bit back another moan, actually holding his breath when he felt Sherlock’s teeth scrape ever so slightly against the pad of his finger, and he was so distracted by all of this that he didn’t even notice Anderson’s footsteps thundering from the room until the door shut behind him.

John probably should have waited a few moments, just to be safe, but he couldn’t. He let out a low growl as he dropped Sherlock back to the floor without much of any warning, but of course the boy landed on his feet with all the grace of a dancer. John was immediately pressed against him, hastily trying to undo his shirt, but his wet fingers kept slipping off the buttons.

“John,” Sherlock panted, pressing a brief kiss to his lips, “Rip it. Just tear it off, the hot water will have already ruined it anyway.”

John didn’t need any more invitation than that. With a deep, animalistic noise he gripped Sherlock's shirt and tore it off down the middle. Buttons clattered to the tiled floor, flowing down with the water and gathering over the drain.

Sherlock made a soft, desperate sound as John tore the rest of the sodden material off his shoulders and instantly pressed his thumbs to Sherlock’s nipples, as payback for earlier. The boy threw his head back with a cry, and John actually winced a bit at the thudding sound it made, remembering how Sherlock had hit his head earlier.

“You okay?” John panted, droplets of water flying from his lips.

Sherlock blinked, looking genuinely confused, “What?”

“Your head,” John explained, pressing against Sherlock’s nipples again and smirking when it made the boy’s breath hitch, “You hit it earlier, against the bench.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, John-” Sherlock breathed out shakily, “I am, _mmnh_ , fine. Of course I’m fine, just keep toing tha- _aah_!” John leaned forward suddenly, taking Sherlock’s nipple in his mouth and swirling his tongue, reveling in the beautiful sounds and gasps Sherlock was making above him. “Oh, John, that is- amaz… _mmm_ … amazing.”

“Did you know you do that out loud?” John mocked with a smirk before switching to the other nipple, and Sherlock arched into it with a gasp before he could think of a sarcastic response. John had thought he had been embarrassingly responsive to this before, but Sherlock was absolutely writhing with John barely touching him. It was wonderful, the way John could drive the usually ever-calm Sherlock Holmes mad with just a press of lips and tongue.

A sudden curiosity bloomed in John’s mind as he remembered the temptation from earlier. The other place he’d wanted to press his lips and tongue.

He broke away from Sherlock’s chest and dropped down to his knees, and the moan that came from Sherlock could have rattled windows.

John pressed his finger to his lips again, and actually made the sound out loud this time, “ _Shhh_ ,” as grinned devilishly from his position on the floor.

“John,” Sherlock replied through gritted teeth, obviously trying to hold in a groan or a whimper or a cry, John couldn’t tell. All he knew was that the tense muscles in Sherlock’s neck, and his hands curling into firsts against the shower wall was oddly satisfying, and only made him happier about this decision.

John managed the undo Sherlock’s belt surprisingly fast, and tugged the black trousers and silky pants down his thighs in one quick movement, and soon the last of Sherlock’s clothing was lying in a soaked puddle at the corner of the shower, where John tossed them.

Being eye to eye with Sherlock’s cock made John’s heart stutter in his chest. It was flushed achingly hard, and John actually felt saliva pooling beneath his tongue at the sight of it, dripping wet and right there. He wasted no time, as he was not quite able to forget where they were, and who would be coming back in here after practice. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying, so immediately John wrapped his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock, and their moans synchronized, echoing hollowly off the shower walls.

John was once again reminded at how inexperienced Sherlock was in this area as Sherlock’s hips jerked involuntarily forward and he stammered from above, ‘S-Sorry, I didn’t-”

John slid his lips off slowly and looked up. “Don’t apologize,” he murmured softly, blinking a bit of water from his eyes. Sherlock swallowed and nodded, watching John as he reached out for one of Sherlock’s hands and guided it to rest on the back of his head. The boy moaned and threw his head back against the wall again as he spread his fingers through John’s soaking hair, pulling him back toward his cock, and John followed.

As much as he wished he could do a gradual build up, teasing and licking and swirling, finding out where to press his tongue to make Sherlock shake and stutter the most, they did not have time for that. John immediately slid his mouth down, down, down until the head of Sherlock’s cock was at the back of his throat. He spluttered a bit, and Sherlock’s hand tightened in his hair as a moan turned into a flat out sob, broken and rattling in his bare, heaving chest.

John felt proud. He’d never done this before, and he smirked ever so slightly around Sherlock’s cock at knowing he was doing so well. He pulled back and brought his hand up to wrap around the base of Sherlock’s length, wanting to elicit more sounds, more ragged breath, _anything_ from Sherlock.

As he began bobbing faster, his hand jerking in time with his mouth, Sherlock’s fingers grabbed at Johns hair, tangling and pulling. John let out a low, rumbling sound around Sherlock's cock and apparently that was the right thing to do because Sherlock gasped, “God, yes John, d-don’t stop that. _Please_.”

John continued the rhythm, picking up speed as he got more comfortable with the feeling of Sherlock’s cock sliding against his tongue, the head of it bumping against his throat whenever Sherlock’s hips jutted forward involuntarily. John tightened his hand and stroked faster, breathing through his nose and trying to avoid the spray from the shower, which thankfully Sherlock seemed to be blocking quite a bit of.

“Y-you should, ah, John, you should t-touch yourself, too” Sherlock stuttered, evidently having to try very hard to string words together. John groaned, because his own cock was absolutely throbbing now from lack of attention. He slowed down his movements just enough to be able to push his shorts down and pull himself out, wrapping a slick hand around his length.

He moaned again, and Sherlock jerked his hips forward at the sound, surprising him. John choked slightly and Sherlock gasped above him, “S-sorry, It’s just- John- it’s nice. You look so good doing that and, _agh_ , god, you’re brill- brilliant at, _mmm_ , fuck…”

John absolutely loved it when Sherlock rambled, but he loved it even more when he cursed. Call it a kink, call it whatever, but hearing Sherlock gasping the word fuck, with his posh accent slipping away into a jumble of unintelligent syllables, knowing that John was was the one to cause that, was absolutely delightful

John began stroking himself faster, the hand on Sherlock’s cock tightening, swirling his tongue madly around it as he bobbed his head. Sherlock had been reduced to gasping, and the occasional whimper that went straight to John’s cock. He was beginning to feel the first feathering sensations of orgasm building up, low in his stomach, and his rhythm became a bit more erratic.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was breathless, but full of warning, “I-I’m going to… you might want to… _John_.” But John didn’t stop, or show any signs of stopping. He fully intended on swallowing Sherlock down, wanting to taste him, and he sped up to show Sherlock that he wasn’t going to pull off and let him come on the shower floor. “Oh, god. Hell, John, that feels so- perfect, ah f-fuck…” Sherlock’s string of half formed thoughts broke off into what John assumed would be a loud groan if Sherlock had any breath left. The hand on the back of John’s head tightened and kept him still as Sherlock’s body went rigid, shuddering out his orgasm and John felt hot semen pour out onto his tongue. He swallowed, tasting the bitterness of Sherlock until, with a last jerk of his cock, Sherlock’s muscles began to shut down one by one, slumping against the shower wall.

Sherlock’s hand cupped John’s jaw and pushed him back until his mouth was free, and he felt oddly empty. “John, you were close,” Sherlock panted, running his slightly shaking fingers gently through John’s hair, shielding him a bit more from the spray of water. “You were so close, weren’t you?” His voice was lazy and mesmerizing, and John found himself nodding up at Sherlock, his own cock still in his hand but it had gone still.

“Keep going.” Sherlock’s voice was almost a whisper, and John made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan. “I bet you could probably get there in less than thirty seconds, couldn’t you? _You were so close_.” Sherlock’s voice wrapped around him like gourmet chocolate and rich velvet, and he began stroking his cock again to the sound of that voice, sighing and letting his eyes flutter shut. His lips parted as he picked up pace, enjoying the sensation of Sherlock’s long, sinewy fingers racking over his scalp. They pulled his head closer gently as he stroked, his breath beginning to stutter, and his forehead came to rest just below Sherlock’s hip bone, and _oh_ , that was nice. Perfect, amazing...

John’s orgasm crashed over him, his breathing ragged, and he found himself pressing fervent kisses to Sherlock’s hip and thigh, wherever he could reach. Sherlock’s fingers were still carding through his wet hair, and he must have switched the shower off, because as John collapsed bonelessly against Sherlock’s leg, still pressing his lips against the wet skin every so often, the water stopped pouring over him. “That’s it, John, _my_ John…” Sherlock was murmuring, and John nodded against Sherlock’s hip, trying to get control of himself.

“You were doing it out loud again,” Sherlock said a few moments later, a smirk evident in his voice.

“Shut up,” was all John replied with, smiling against Sherlock’s wet skin.

 

*  *  *

 

“I look ridiculous, John,” Sherlock mumbled, his breath ghosting out in front of him as they walked back across campus. When the cool night air hit his bare chest Sherlock had no choice but to zip John’s rugby jacket up all the way to his neck, scowling. If one of his hands wasn’t being held firmly, he would have crossed his arms to complete the pouty look, but John’s hand was far too warm to ever abandon.

Even if it had been ice cold Sherlock probably wouldn’t have let it go, if he was being perfectly honest.

“You don’t look ridiculous,” John replied with a chuckle, flexing his fingers around Sherlock’s. “I like it on you.”

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock replied, trying hopelessly to pull down the too-short arms of the jacket so they covered his wrists. John chuckled again.

“No, trust me. I do.” The looked up to beam at Sherlock, but not before his eyes lingered on the embroidery on his chest. _Watson_. And suddenly, Sherlock understood. If there was a way that he could put his name, _Holmes_ , on John without actually tattooing across his very skin, he would most certainly do so.

With a smirk Sherlock turned back forward, “Fine, but you must admit the jeans are ridiculous, John.”

He actually burst out laughing at that, and warmth pooled in Sherlock’s chest.  
This was laugh number four, the one where John throws his head back a bit and his mouth opens wide, and it’s short but genuine. One of Sherlock’s favorite to elicit from him, and he couldn’t help looking to the dewy ground with his own soft smile.

“They suit you, actually,” John giggled, “Your ankles are adorable.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped back, though it was quite impossible to erase the chuckle that was building in his own throat. He was dressed head to toe in John’s spare clothing, and the zipper of his jacket was rubbing uncomfortably against his bare chest and stomach, his ankles were freezing in the too small jeans- _jeans_ , for god’s sake. Sherlock never wore jeans, but John had refused to let him back into his wet clothing, going on about how cold it would be and pneumonia and all that.

It was nice. All of it. Even wearing John’s uncomfortable clothing, because he seemed to be genuinely worried that Sherlock might catch his death from cold. It was new, and Sherlock found he rather liked it. Being cared about.

Eventually they came to a fork in the path, each one leading to a different dorm room building. A, B, or C. John stopped so abruptly that Sherlock’s steps actually had to stutter and back peddle to keep from yanking the smaller boy’s arm off, and he wrinkled his brow at him in confusion.

“John?”

Sherlock couldn’t be certain in the dim light, well past sunset, but there seemed to be the faintest of blushes rising in John’s cheeks as he said, “Well, I was thinking…” He trailed off, swallowing nervously, then starting again, “We could stay another night. Together.”

Sherlock blinked and straightened up, looking down at John with a raised eyebrow. “Your roommate,” he said simply, and John nodded.

“Yeah, Mike will be at mine, so…” John bobbed his head again, pursing his lips and looking at Sherlock expectantly. As if he should know end of that sentence, and Sherlock tipped his head to the side to show John he had no idea what he was talking about. The boy rolled his eyes and sighed, though the corner of his mouth was quirked upward in a lopsided grin (grin number two) as his eyes landed back on Sherlock. “So, I was _wondering_ , what about yours? He wasn’t in last night, so I just mean… what about tonight?”

Sherlock blinked again, trying to make sense of that sentence. “My… roommate? You’re asking about my roommate.”

“Well, yes.” It was John’s turn to furrow his brow, “Is he going to be-”

Sherlock cut him off, however, feeling suddenly embarrassed himself. “I don’t have a room mate,” He said shortly, looking out past John to avoid his eyes.

A short moment passed before John replied softly, “Everyone’s got a roommate.”

“Well I don’t,” Sherlock snapped, his eyes meeting John’s once more, feeling anxious as he scanned his face, trying to determine what John was thinking of him. After a moment he tried  
remove his hand from John’s grip, but the boy only intertwined their fingers tighter, and Sherlock dropped his eyes down to their hands to avoid John’s gaze once more.

“Sherlock, that’s fine,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. He watched it move slowly over the indents of his hand, back and forth, but said nothing for a long time. John was dipping his head lower, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye, but he didn’t meet John’s. He simply continued to stare at their intertwined fingers.

Eventually, when the silence became unbearable, Sherlock muttered, “He lasted five days.”

“What?” John asked, confused.

“My roommate this year.” Sherlock slowly lifted his eyes to meet John’s again, “He lasted five days before asking to be reassigned. The school didn’t even try to get me a new one, since it always happens.” He tried his best to keep his voice even, strictly informative, but he knew John wouldn’t miss the bitterness in the words. It’s not as if he cared what some idiot thought of him- he preferred to live alone anyway. Alone was much safer. Yet it never felt particularly good to come back to ones room to find half of it had been emptied and abandoned without warning.

There was another beat of silence between them, filled with only the sound of cool wind which tickled Sherlock’s ankles and behind his ears. Before John spoke again he reached out with his injured fingers and pushed them gingerly into Sherlock’s other hand until Sherlock responded, hooking their fingers together. “Let’s go to your room,” was all he said, and Sherlock was thankful. Thankful that he had found John, this magnificent creature all his own, who always knew the right time to end conversations and start walking again. John, who knew the right time to lean up on his tiptoes and kiss Sherlock’s cheek, chilled from the night air, and John’s lips which were so warm where they touched, Sherlock couldn’t stop from grinning and leaning into the fleeting touch before they made their way to building B. All the anxiousness, the worry, the embarrassment trickled away with a simple flex of John's fingers around his, and for that he was grateful

They entered the hall, going past the common room and toward the two hundred section. John knew the way, but he still let Sherlock lead him anyway, staying a few steps behind. They walked down the hall, and they were just passing room 218 when Sherlock noticed something was off and stopped abruptly, causing John to bump clumsily into his back.

“What the- Sherlock?” John muttered, stepping to the side to look up at him with a slightly concerned expression on his face, “What is it?

“Perhaps tonight isn’t a the best time,” Sherlock said in an offhand voice, forcing himself to tear his eyes from his door before John noticed what he was staring at, but it was too late. The boy turned his head from Sherlock to look at the door, a few feet ahead, and Sherlock tensed. He waited, watching John’s jaw twitch the way it did only when he was truly angry.

After a moment Sherlock said, as calmly as he could, “John, it’s fine-”

“No, it isn’t.” He snapped back, still glaring at the door. He walked the rest of the way, letting go of Sherlock’s hand and leaving the boy to follow, coming to stand just behind John as they drew closer to the room.

 _F-R-E-A-K_ was carved messily into the wood, just over the brass numbers of 221B. Someone had gone over the indents with chaotic looking Sharpie, scribbled over the lines and overlapping angrily. The letters were large, covering nearly the entire top portion of the door, but Sherlock had stopped looking at them long ago. He was looking at John apprehensively, knowing how angry he got in these situations.

“I- we, were here just this morning,” John said through gritted teeth, and Sherlock very nearly flinched at all the evident anger John was holding back. “So someone, some bastard, came here today and did this, this-” John cut himself off with an angry hum, tilting his head to the side. Sherlock swallowed, remaining silent and knowing better than to try and tell John he was used to it. That usually didn’t go over well.

John reached a hand up, shaking slightly with what Sherlock presumed was anger, and traced over the letters. The carving was deep; John’s fingers could dip into the grooves. He traced each line, and paused after he reached the end of K, and his hand slowly closed into a fist. Sherlock suddenly felt panicked.

“Please, John. Let’s just go inside,” He tried softly, but John didn’t move.

“How can you not care, Sherlock?” John’s voice was quiet, almost offended, and Sherlock had not the slightest clue how to respond to that, so he remained silent. John slowly slid his hand off the door and stepped back when he realized Sherlock wasn’t going to answer him, and he took that as an invitation to unlock the door. He stepped carefully past John with his key, swinging the door open a moment later and allowing John to step through before him.

He followed John in and winced at the mess of books, stacks nearly reaching the ceiling and scattered throughout the room. “Sorry, I um, visited the library shortly after you left this morning.” But John didn’t seem to be listening to him, or the even notice the mess. He was silently pulling his jumper off over his head and throwing it over the back of Sherlock’s desk chair. Sherlock couldn’t even bring himself to appreciate the reveal of John’s muscular torso, the tan planes of his back flexing as he silently walked to the bed. Not when the air was so thick with tension.

Sherlock wrung his hands in front of him apprehensively, still hovering near the door. “John, I told you, it’s fine.”

John sighed in response and simply threw his arm over his eyes, “That’s just it, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice, but the syllables were sharp, and Sherlock’s hands tightened around each other.

There was a long pause after that, Sherlock standing rigid as he watched John breathe for a moment before asking tentatively, “Are you...angry? With me?”

John’s arm slid from his face and hung off the bed in a defeated way. He simply stared at the ceiling then, seconds ticking by as Sherlock watched, his own heart hammering in his chest until John propped himself up on one elbow to look across the room. “No, Sherlock. I’m not angry with you.” Sherlock let out a rush of relieved breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. His skin still felt cold all over as the subdued tone of John’s voice washed over him, because it sounded oddly similar to disappointment, which was somehow worse.

Sherlock scanned John for a moment longer, eyes roaming over his face and his features, before blurting out, “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“What?” he asked, tilting his head to the side as a faint crease appeared between his brows.

“What people say,” Sherlock elaborated quietly, and it felt quite literally like the words were tumbling out of his mouth against his will. He felt his face growing hot, unfamiliar with feeling so out of his depth. He never- not _ever_ \- allowed himself to speak without thinking first, but now it seemed like the words were forming out of somewhere other than his mind, somewhere he couldn’t quite reach and catch them before they came out of his mouth.

“Yes,” John replied slowly, corners of his mouth turning down into a frown.

 “What they say about me,” Sherlock added quickly, still wringing his hands in front of him, “I don’t understand, why would it upset _you_?”

He watched as a flicker of hurt flash across John’s face. The boy pursed his lips, and then the expression passed as he looked down his chest with another sigh. “Come here, Sherlock,” he said quietly, and tucked his knees to his chest as he peeled to duvet back, slipping underneath it.

Sherlock didn’t move for a long moment, but eventually made his way across the room, stepping over piles of books on forensic science and encyclopedias of ancient languages, nearly tripping on a teetering pile of books dedicated to human anatomy. John watched him, and held an arm up as Sherlock fell into bed, letting it drape over Sherlock’s shoulders as he curled up against John’s side, his head falling comfortably over John’s chest. He closed his eyes, sighing into the silence and pressed his ear to John’s heartbeat, listening for it.

Another stretch of silence, and then Sherlock spoke rather suddenly, “Do you ever wonder if you’re wrong?” His voice was soft, lips brushing against John’s skin, and he actually heard a stutter in the steady beating of John’s heart beneath his ear at the question.

“About what, Sherlock?” He asked, though the sadness in his voice told Sherlock that he knew what the question had meant.

“About me,” he elaborated nonetheless, “Do you ever think that maybe you’re the one who’s wrong?” Sherlock opened his eyes as John’s breath hitched. He brought a hand up to rest softly on John’s stomach, tracing his fingers lightly around his navel, eyes following his fingers at they roamed freely over the tan surface. John had gone still beneath him, and Sherlock finally whispered, “That maybe I am a- a…”

“No,” John cut him off, his voice fierce. “No, Sherlock. I’ve never even considered that.”

“But-”

“Christ, Sherlock. Stop it.” Suddenly there was a hand beneath Sherlock’s chin, pulling him upward and he barely had enough time to reposition himself before John was kissing him. Sherlock let his eyes fall shut and kissed John back softly, his brows knitting together, and John tilted his head until their lips parted again, and their foreheads pressed together instead. Their eyes remained closed at both of them simply breathed each other in for a moment, John’s thumb tracing slowly along Sherlock’s jaw.

“I can’t believe you exist,” someone whispered, and Sherlock was vaguely alarmed to realize it had been him. This whole talking-without-thinking thing was going to take some getting used to. John’s eyes opened slowly, still looking guarded and stormy blue, searching Sherlock’s for an explanation. A blush rose in Sherlock’s cheeks as he realized he’d need to provide one, and he whispered, “I mean that the idea that someone like you could not only exist, but also… choose me,” Sherlock swallowed, his cheeks positively burning now, “it seems impossible, is all.”

“Someone like me?” John asked quietly, though Sherlock was relieved to see a small smile finally arching his lips.

“Yes, John. You are remarkable.” Sherlock leaned forward to capture John’s lower lip again, letting a sigh out through his nose as John pushed back.

“And you’re amazing. Of course I’d choose you,” John whispered, his eyes still closed, eyelashes dusky against the flush in in cheeks.

“I just hope you don’t change your mind,” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips, but that was evidently the wrong thing to say because John froze again, his entire body going rigid before he pulled back to stare at Sherlock, wide eyed. He scanned John’s face, completely perplexed as to why he looked so suddenly shattered. “John?” He asked, his voice uncharacteristically warped with concern, “Did I say something wrong?”

John blinked, and to Sherlock’s horror he noticed the wetness lining his eyes as he whispered, his voice tight and slightly coarse, “No, Sherlock. You didn’t. Come here.”

And John was suddenly pulling him unto a hug so tight that Sherlock's windpipe was being constricted by John’s shoulder, but he didn’t mind. John seemed to… need it, somehow. So Sherlock twisted however awkwardly so John could clutch onto him as long as he needed to, face buried into his neck and Sherlock’s chin resting on his head, and the position was oddly reminiscent of the night before, only reversed. Sherlock realized he was being a comfort to John, for whatever reason, and he couldn’t let him down when John had been his life raft the night before, keeping him afloat in whatever miserable sea he’d been drowning in.

He brought his arms around John’s shoulders, pulling him down and turning them both so Sherlock came to rest on his back and John’s head was on his chest. John draped his leg over top of Sherlock’s thigh, his arms snaking around his torso, one sliding under his shirt so that the hand that came to rest below Sherlock collarbone was skin on skin and they both sighed as they settled down into the bedding. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that John’s breath was slightly shaky as he exhaled, and the realization unsettled something unpleasant in his chest. Something cold, so he dipped down to kiss the top of John’s head and murmured, “Alright, John?”

John nodded and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s chest. Silence stretched on after that,only filled by deep breathing and every once in a while the press of lips against skin. After a long while John’s breath evened out, his limbs growing heavy and relaxed, and Sherlock was sure he’d fallen asleep. He settled down even deeper in the bed and tightened his arms around John, the movement causing a spiraling, fluttering feeling of warmth deep in his chest as the entirely of John’s limp body pressed against him, tangled and wonderful. The warmth tugged at his eyelids, John’s deep and even breathing pulling him toward sleep.

“Sherlock?” John murmured a moment later, surprising him, but Sherlock only tightened his arms again and nuzzled against the top of John’s head, humming in response. “I’m not going to change my mind, you know.” he murmured, his voice quiet but sure, and Sherlock forced his eyes open with a bit of difficulty. He peered down, only able to see John’s forehead and nose from this angle, but he looked anyway.

“Good,” was all he could think to say through an exhausted haze. It was strange, because without John in his bed it felt cold and not nearly as comfortable. It always took him hours to calm his mind down enough to actually sleep, and even then he was more often at his desk or on the floor, waking in the morning with pages or papers stuck to his cheek. But with John here, sleep came so easily, fogging his mind and warming him from every point where John touched him.

“I swear, I won’t.” John was mumbling, but Sherlock let his eyes fall shut again and nuzzled into John’s feather-soft hair, shushing him.

“Shhh, John. I know. Go to sleep.” And as if Sherlock’s permission was all he needed, with one last nod and an unintelligible mumble, John went boneless against him. Sherlock traced sleepy patterns up and down John’s arms, for he didn’t know how long, finger tips memorizing every bump and scar and wrinkle of his elbow, of his wrist. Up and down, tracing lightly, and every once in a while it would cause John to shift in his sleep, leaning into Sherlock’s touch.

He liked the idea what his fingers, his hands, could somehow reach John even in his subconscious. That even while John was far off in sleep, his fingers tracing along his skin could cause him to mumble sleepily, to smack his lips, to curl his fingers against Sherlock’s chest and squeeze him close only to relax once more with a sigh.

Eventually Sherlock’s fingers slowed, and as much as he wanted to stay awake as not to miss any sound, any breath or movement John made in this innocent, vulnerable state, because he was endlessly fascinating, he couldn’t fight sleep off any more. His hand came to rest against John wrist, fingers wrapping around it and pressed against it’s pulse, counting the beats of his heart until the numbers fled his mind and Sherlock fell into sleep with a sigh, oddly content with the fact that he was the one able to make things alright again instead of John this time, even if he still didn’t understand what exactly was wrong in the first place.

 

*  *  *

 

 _Normal_ , is a relative term.

Each person in the universe could likely provide a different definition for the word. _Normal_ for Sherlock Holmes is likely the exact opposite of normal for any sane person. _Normal_ , is not a word Sherlock ever thought would pertain to his life, in any circumstance, and yet for the next several days that’s exactly what his life was.

Again, though, normal is a relative term.

John had become part of Sherlock’s normal. Such a regular part of every day, in fact, that it no longer surprised him to see a the boy’s familiar figure leaning against the door of the studio. It no longer surprised him to see a smile on his face, and that glint in his eye which always appeared when he caught Sherlock halfway through a routine, with his brow sweaty and his hair wild, clad in leggings and a tank top.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Sherlock breathed, chest heaving, but John only chuckled.

“Too late,” He murmured back, his voice dropping to a deliciously low octave, and Sherlock couldn’t help but grin back.

Sherlock was used to this. This no longer surprised him. However, he didn’t think he would ever grow accustomed to the feeling of John Watson’s mouth against his. He couldn’t imagine ever truly believing the fact that he was allowed to kiss him all he wanted. To touch him freely. It would never feel _normal_ for John to stride across the studio floor and wrap his strong arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss that quite literally took his breath away. He would never get used to the dizzy feeling in his knees, the fluttering just beneath his ribcage, and shiver of his skin as goosebumps erupted beneath John’s hands.

That, would never be _normal_. But Sherlock didn’t ever want to be without it either.

“John,” he breathed over the boy’s lips, pleased to see the smirk playing across them, “I need to practice.”

The boy hummed in response, bringing their mouths together once more and Sherlock nudged back, unable to resist falling further into the warmth of John’s lips. “You can practice when I finish kissing you,” he whispered, nipping at Sherlock’s bottom lip as he let out a half hearted sound of protest.

“I was halfway through when you turned up,” he countered, but John barely let the words out of his mouth before pushing forward, and Sherlock gasped as John sucked hard at the corner of his jaw. “Careful,” he managed to breathe out, though if he was being perfectly honest he couldn’t care less.

John seemed to know that, somehow, because he merely chuckled and murmured, “What? Scared of a hickie, are you?” Sherlock didn’t bother answering that, simply letting his eyes fall shut and pulling John tighter against him as his lips moved down, no doubt leaving small heart shaped bruises trailing down his neck.

“John,” he warned again a moment later, though there wasn’t might fight in the syllable. John pulled off his collar bone and leaned back, admiring his handiwork with a feral grin.

“Mmm, that looks nice doesn’t it,” he murmured, as if Sherlock could see the marks as well, but he agreed with a nod nonetheless. John’s eyes trailed up and down the side of his neck, no doubt taking in the slowly forming bruises. “You bruise so easily,” he said softly, thumbing gently over the side of his throat, “god, you’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock blushed profusely at that. At the worshipful touches and John’s tone of voice. It was unbearable. He reached up and covered John’s hand on the side of his neck with his own, which made John’s eyes finally meet his as Sherlock whispered, “John,” because he didn’t know what else to say, but that seemed to be enough. John leaned up on his tiptoes to pressed a lingering kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, and he pushed into to touch of lips before John lowered himself back down and stepped away.

“I suppose I could kiss you more once you’re finished,” he said with a wink, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. It was only just then that Sherlock realized John wasn’t in his rugby uniform. John had the most infuriating talent of making Sherlock less observant, which until he’d met John was nearly impossible to do. He narrowed his eyes further at the realization, looking the boy up and down.

“You don’t have practice today,” he pointed out, gesturing to John’s jeans and jumper for emphasis.

“Brilliant deduction,” he teased, leaning back against one of the barres. Sherlock glared half heartedly at the sarcasm, but John simply shrugged and waved a hand nonchalantly, “I thought I could come watch. You’ve been practicing so much these past few days, I haven’t really seen you.”

“I saw you-”

“Sherlock, I’ve already told you that seeing each other in the hall doesn’t count.”

Sherlock nodded, “Right, well… you want to watch? Really?” He wrung his hands together a bit nervously, feeling his cheeks begin to warm up a bit. “It’s- it’s just practice. Nothing all that interesting.”

“Sherlock,” John replied softly, his voice warm and comforting, “you’re the most interesting person I know, and I love seeing you dance.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were, without a doubt, a deep shade of crimson by now. He ducked his head down but couldn’t quite stop a bashful grin from forming down at his toes, encased in rose petal silk. “So would you, er, like to see a routine I’ve been working on then?” He raised his gaze back up to John even though his cheeks were still hot, stupid grin still plastered on his face despite the twisting anxiety he felt in his stomach.

However, he was almost startled to see the level of adoration on John’s face as their eyes met. Sherlock had never categorized this smile before, and he hastily added it to his mental list as smile number six. The curve of John’s lips was soft, but his eyes were bright, irises almost seeming to shine turquoise around the pinpoint of black in the center, crystal clear as he nodded and said, “I’d very much like to see that, yes.”

Sherlock wouldn’t have been at all shocked if there were flames erupting from his cheeks and ears now.

He held John’s gaze until he felt dizzy, blinking out of the trance he’d been forced into and clumsily spinning around. He practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to the stereo, clicking the CD he’d burned into place. It only held one song. A composition he’d written specifically for this piece of choreography. His finger hovered over the play button, his back to John, nervousness bubbling in his stomach,

“I, um, the choreography is still a work in progress,” he muttered, thankful John couldn’t see the color in his cheeks this time.

“I’m sure it will be amazing,” he replied evenly.

“Yes, but-”

“Sherlock,” John cut him off, amusement evident in his voice. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see John shaking his head slowly, “It will be amazing. Go on.”

And with that, Sherlock pressed the play button and hurried to the center of the room to get into position, nervousness now mixed with a certain level of euphoria because John, _his_ John, was here and he thought he was _amazing_.

The piece started in a crouched position on the floor, toes pointed, hands resting beneath his head. Sherlock counted the beats of silence in his head, letting out a breath and feeling the world begin to melt away as it always did when he lost himself in a piece. He could still feel John’s presence, somewhere in the distance, but instead of distracting it felt encouraging. A barely there reminder that John was in the room.

The first shimmering violin note played and Sherlock arched his back, head rising as he practically floated into a sitting position. He dragged his fingertips softly along the hardwood floor, eventually arching off into the air and over his head as the second violin part harmonized over top of the first. He looked to the ceiling where his fingers were now pointing, and in one movement rose to his knees and then to his feet.

He took a few steps forward, flat footed, one arm stretching out and perfectly aligned with the angle of his body before he retreated backward. His arm curled back to his side as he raised onto his toes, swirling elegantly, his arms swaying in time with his movement, forming arches and diagonals to his torso as he fell back into second position.

The violin cut off dramatically for a second, and Sherlock felt the tension in his bones, kinetic energy vibrating through him as he waited for that a-minor to pick up again and launch him into movement.

The note was sharp as it returned, and Sherlock pushed back onto his toes suddenly, lifting his right leg up toward the ceiling and twisting so it pulled him into a tight spin. His arms fanned out as he slowed, lowering his foot midway so his toes pointed to his locked knee where he balanced perfectly. He bent at the waist, arms coming up like the wings of a bird, the violin beginning to pick up even more pace as he straightened back up.

He kicked out a pointed toe several times, bending at the knee and then straightening again along with each short note of the composition. His body swayed, melting downward like hot wax as his arms wilted in front of him, falling almost, but not completely limp as he spun dramatically on pointed toes.

 _Plié_. He bent his knees, standing flat footed only to spring back up onto his toes. The music lulled again and Sherlock slowed down to an almost impossible rate, rotating rather than spinning in a way that looking like he should fall over, but his leg held firm, rising higher and higher as the violin peaked at a high pitch crescendo, blaring through the room.

 He came around to face John again, catching his eye for only a moment. The world was blurred, but John was so clear before him, a look of awe on his face, and it made Sherlock’s heart stutter momentarily as his leg lowered, preparing for the most difficult stretch of the piece.

John’s face disappeared as Sherlock shut his eyes, counting in his head once more the beats of the composition he’d memorized by heart, but he could still see John’s face perfectly in his mind, even after he snapped his eyes back open and lurched into action.

The pace of the dance went instantly from slow buildup ro rapid release, and Sherlock’s body twisted madly around into a corkscrew like spin. He raised his foot up, over his head, then arched the leg back down to pull him into another spin, tighter and faster and _christ_ , where did the ground go? Sherlock lost all sensation of the ground ever existing as he left it, legs spreading wide, back arching backward almost as if his body were about to become one parallel line to the floor.

He caught himself perfectly on his toes and couldn’t help but smile at the impeccable landing, blending seamlessly into his next move. He took several prance like steps forward, still on his toes, a grin he wasn’t even aware of still on his face as the music trembled in his very bones. He lifted his leg up once more, only briefly, arms arching high above him before kicking off into another leap, land, and then another, and another, when suddenly he dropped all the way back down to the floor into a perfect split. He smirked as he heard John’s intake of breath to his right.

One leg bent beneath him, toes pointed and brought him back to his knees as he lifted himself up, and this what one could call the finale. The bit that mattered. The move that took months of practice to perfect.

Sherlock snapped back to his feet, and took two grand sweeping steps forward, building momentum for the switch leap he was about to preform. He kicked out his right leg, bringing it high in the air and once he was at the peak of his jump switched them, bringing his body back together to catch him on the floor and he curled his back inward, spinning, spinning, _keep spinning_ and _stop_. He spread his legs apart, poised on the tips of his toes as the last note cut off abruptly and the room went silent, filled only with the sound of his ragged breathing.

After a few breaths, chest heaving, skin glistening with sweat, he lowered himself back onto flat feet and finally looked to John, the faintest bit of anxiety building in his chest. He swallowed nervously before asking, still breathless, “Well? What did you think?”

John’s mouth opened twice before he actually managed to say anything. Sherlock watched him steadily, eyes roaming over the boy’s features as he tried to read him. Finally, though, John spoke quietly, “That… was… amazing.”

Sherlock blinked. It was not as though the word was foreign to him. John used it nearly every day to describe him, for some ludicrous reason, and yet this time it felt different. This time it _did_ surprise him. The corner of his mouth quirked up and he peered up at John through his lashes, cheeks turning a faint pink color. “You really think so?”

John let out a breathy laugh and pushed off of the barre he was still leaning against, stepping forward, “Yes. It was extraordinary. Truly extraordinary.” He stepped right up to Sherlock until he had to turn his head look up at him, still grinning (grin number four, the half smile with crinkles at the edge of his eyes). “But you know that. I say it enough,” John murmured as he brought his hand up to cup Sherlock’s jaw.

“I know,” he murmured, and ducked his head to press their lips together briefly before adding, “Thank you, John.”

Then, all of a sudden, there was Violin blaring in the room again, causing the pair of them to practically jump out of their skins. Sherlock flinched and cracked his forehead against John’s, causing him to gasp in pain, stepping back and rubbing the spot Sherlock had hit.

“Oh, god, John I’m sorry-” Sherlock sputtered stupidly, wincing at the own throbbing in his forehead as he turned back toward the stereo. The CD had started over automatically, apparently. Sherlock lunged and pressed the off button before turning back to John with an empathetic look.

“I’m sorry,” He muttered again, feeling foolish, but John didn’t look hurt. He looked… “John, are you… are you _laughing_?”

The boy was unable to respond, however, as he tried and failed to hold in a laugh. “Oh god-” he spluttered, only to trail off with another bout of giggles, “Sher-Sherlock, your face-” and as John’s face began to turn a slight pink color, Sherlock felt a giggle rising in his own throat, and before long they were both dissolved into a fit of laughter, Sherlock stumbling forward until he could lean against John, who at that point had tears streaming down his face.

“I don’t- ah, I don’t know why that was so funny, your face was just- you looked so _scared_!” John’s forehead rested against Sherlock’s again, and although he winced at the slight bump forming he didn’t pull away, “God, you’re adorable, I can’t-”

“John,” Sherlock complained around a laugh, “S-stop it, I can’t breathe-”

They ended up half clinging to each other for support, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder as he clutched at a stitch in his side. Soon enough laughter turned to ragged breathing, and John was finally able to stand straight again, wiping tear tracks from his face with the back of his hand.

“S-sorry,” He said shakily, still grinning like mad, shaking his head.

Sherlock ducked down and kissed John’s cheeks soundly. “No, it’s fine,” He reassured, raising his hands up to hold onto John’s biceps before kissing him again, this time on the mouth. “However, I do need to practice a bit more. That routine was _dreadful_.”

John only returned his smile and murmured against his lips softly, “God, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

 

*  *  *

 

The next day after class Sherlock stopped at his locker to deposit his books before heading back to his dorm room. As he swung the door open (covered in stickers courtesy of John to cover up the various graffiti) a note promptly fell out of it, floating gracefully to the floor to land beside Sherlock’s feet. The boy stared at it suspiciously for a few moments before bending to pick it up.

As he brought the paper closer for examination, his suspicion gave way to a soft grin. He immediately recognized it as John’s notebook paper, which was a light shade of blue. The note was folded into a perfect square, and Sherlock unfolded it carefully, revealing bit by bit a message crawled in John’s handwriting.

 

Sherlock momentarily gave into the foolish impulse to lift his head and look left to right down the hall, half expecting to see John with a smug look on his face, but it was deserted. He pocketed the note and slid his books into his locker before shutting it and heading toward the exit, not quite able to wipe the small smile from his face

 

*  *  *

 

Eight o’clock could not come soon enough. Sherlock was bored, restless, and shamelessly staring at the clock as it switched from 7:59 to 8:00, at which point he launched up from his chair and out the door. He’d already had his jacket on for twenty minutes and was practically over heating, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t seen John once all day, which was unacceptable, and was certainly looking forward to whatever surprise he had in store.

It was impossible to guess what it could be, though Sherlock had tried.

The air was frigid this time of year around eight o’clock. Sherlock turned his coat collar up in protest as the chill hit him, sniffing slightly as it froze his nostrils. The library was short walk from building B, but he shoved his hands deep in his pockets anyway as he started off.

He walked uninterrupted for about three and half minutes before he caught sight of shadows moving about in his peripheral vision. He didn’t stop walking, but he scanned left to right, eyes moving rapidly over the frosty grass and damp pathway suspiciously. He pulled his jacket tighter around him, burrowing deeper into his pockets as he did so and picking up his pace.

The shadows flickered again a moment later, however, and Sherlock couldn’t quite resist turning his head in the direction of the disturbance this time to get a better look. He narrowed his eyes in the dim, but he didn’t actually need to do any detective work to figure out the culprit. They stepped from the shadows then, sending a chill down Sherlock’s spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Sebastian, closely followed by Victor, Anderson, and four others whose names Sherlock had never bothered to commit to memory stepped out onto the path. They were all wearing a nearly identical sneer, and Sherlock had no choice but to stop walking as they stood in his way.

Although anxiety was spiraling in his stomach, he simply rolled his eyes and asked in an annoyed tone, “What do you lot want? I have somewhere to be.”

There was a ripple of laughter which caught Sherlock slightly off guard. He furrowed his brow, gaze jumping from face to face, but they were impossible to read. His eyes finally fell onto Sebastian, narrowing as the boy spoke, “ _Do you_ now? Date with the boyfriend?”

There was another wave of laughter at that and Sherlock narrowed his eyes further, squaring his shoulders and snapping, “Yes, actually, that’s exactly…” He trailed off abruptly, eyes widening minutely as the realization hit him. “ _Oh_ ,” he breathed, the first tendril of panic finding it’s way into his chest as it tightened, “Which one of you was it, then?” He asked, raising his eyes back up to stare at each boy individually. “It was very well done,” he added, attempting to sound calm but even these idiots would pick up on the tremor in his voice. “It looked just like his handwriting, the note. You even got a hold of his notebook. _Well done_.”

Sebastian turned slowly to clap Anderson on the back, who raised a hand, though he looked oddly sick to his stomach. Sherlock snapped his eyes onto him, “You surprise me, Anderson. I was beginning to think there there was nothing you were good at.” The boy, however, didn’t seem to have anything to say to that. He simply lowered his hand along with his eyes and remained silent, and Sherlock would say he looked guilty if that made any sense at all. Which it didn’t.

He didn’t have long to dwell on Anderson’s strange behavior, though. Sebastian’s sneer twisted into a dark curl of lips, his brown eyes glistening like embers with the reflection of the single yellow street light above them. He squeezed Anderson’s shoulder and jostled him a bit, voice low and dangerous as he said, “Anderson here snuck back into the locker room while Watson was washing up in the showers. Trying to get the blood off his face, I suppose.”

There were a few encouraging jeers from the boys in response to that, and Sherlock clenched his fists angrily inside his pockets.

So that’s what that sound had been, while him and John were in the shower together. Anderson tearing a page from John’s notebook, and then forging the note. Sherlock remembered it now, though he hadn’t been bothered to pay attention at the time, what with being in the position he had been...

 _Stupid_.

“Blood off his face?” Sherlock scoffed, brushing off the sudden realization, “More like washing _your_ blood off his _hands_.” Sherlock’s voice dropped low, almost a growl as his eyes hardened accusingly on Sebastian, calling him out on his lie. The boy faltered for a moment, but it was brief. Soon the flicker of uncertainty passed, his lip curling back up and his eyes darkening once more.

“Either way, we fooled _you_ ,” Sebastian pointed out, jabbing a finger in the direction of Sherlock’s chest. This only made Sherlock’s blood boil even hotter in his veins, because it was true. He’d believed it so easily. He’d been fooled by the boys with the lowest IQ possible to still be allowed at this school, and that made his teeth grind.

“Congratulations,” he snapped sarcastically, glaring daggers at Sebastian, “Would you like a metal?”

Sebastian’s sneer fell, and the expression which replaced it sent tendrils of panic throughout Sherlock’s body. Sebastian’s jaw clenched, his eyes seemed to grow too dark to even be able to reflect light now. Sherlock's legs practically ached with the desire to turn and sprint away, but he knew better. He couldn’t outrun them. There was nowhere to hide. There was nobody around who could, or would help him. So instead, he stood his ground as Sebastian took a slow step forward, because that was his only option in the end.

Sherlock’s eyes dropped down to the boy’s feet as they moved over the pavement, bringing Sebastian closer. The blood pumping in his ears nearly drowned out what Sebastian was saying, his voice gravelly with held back fury, but not quite. “We thought it might be good to teach you and Watson a lesson.”

The words reached Sherlock’s ears a moment after they were actually said, but he lurched his head up as he understood them, insides twisting into an intricate knot. “Where’s John?” He demanded, voice just slightly higher than usual with rising panic.

Sebastian barked out a laugh that completely lacked humor, “Don’t worry yourself. I wasn’t about going to injure my star forward just before one of the biggest games of the season.” Sherlock let all the air out of his lungs, knees feeling weak with relief as Sebastian shook his head, grinning wide to reveal both rows of teeth. “I suppose hurting you will hurt him plenty enough anyway, won’t it? Besides,” he took one last step forward, so close he was almost stepping on the toes of Sherlock’s shoes and added, “I have wanted to do this for a _long_ time, Sherly.”

The first punch should have been expected. He should have seen it coming, given Sebastian’s proximity and that look on his face. He should have been ready for it, yet it caught Sherlock completely off guard. Pain blossomed across the left side of his jaw before he registered what happened, stars instantly erupting and obscuring his vision. He staggered to the side, a strangled sound of pain escaping his lips before he could stifle it, and then abruptly he was being lifted from the ground by the collar of his jacket.

Sherlock tried desperated to blink away the back spots in his vision. Eventually Sebastian’s face materialized back into view, far too close for comfort. He tried to push the boy away but there wasn’t much he could do without his feet on the ground. The metallic taste of blood filled Sherlock's mouth as he struggled uselessly against Sebastian's grip, and he heard laughter coming from beyond the ringing in his ears.

“You know I liked that Watson kid,” Sebastian spoke through gritted teeth, promptly dropping Sherlock back to the ground and shoving him backward hard enough to make him stumble, but not fall. Sherlock spat out a mouthful of blood as Sebastian advanced toward him again, continuing, “Then you came along, _freak_. You just _had_ to go and _ruin_ him.”

 Sherlock was more prepared for the second punch, but somehow that only made it hurt more. Sebastian’s knuckles collided with his cheek, causing his head to jerk the other way, neck twisting painfully. Sherlock’s vision went completely black this time, taking longer to blink away and straighten back up, and even then everything seemed dim. He stood hunched, panting slightly as he watched Sebastian circle him.

“Well, Sherly? Aren’t you going to fight back?”

“No,” Sherlock gasped out, resenting how weak he sounded, but he couldn’t summon the strength to make his voice any stronger.

“Aw, why not?” Sebastian asked innocently as he came back around to Sherlock’s front, bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

"There’s no _point_ ,” Sherlock snapped , trying to sound as agitated as he could manage, though his vision was dimming dangerously. However, he credited that to the fact that his right eye was rapidly swelling shut. “There are seven of you,” he explained further, gesturing to the group standing a short distance away.

“Ah, _smart,_ ” Sebastian said softly, and then a surprisingly gentle hand appeared beneath Sherlock’s chin, cupping it lightly and pulling it upward. “Always so smart, aren’t you?”

Apparently silence was not the right answer for that question, though Sherlock doubted anything he said would have saved him from the right hook which came up beneath his chin as Sebastian’s gentle hand fell away. This time the ground came up to greet him, no longer able to keep his knees from buckling. His elbows hit first, shortly followed by his skull, emitting a dull crack and Sherlock's vision went disconcertingly blank again. He heard himself groan, trying instinctively to push himself up at least to a sitting position, but his arms were infuriatingly uncooperative. His bruised elbows buckled just like his knees did and he came to rest with his cheek against the pavement, helpless and breathing hard.

And suddenly- or Maybe it wasn't so sudden; perhaps minutes passed before that first kick struck him between his first and second ribs, forcing all the breath from his lungs, but Sherlock had lost all concept of time. And then there were feet coming from every direction. Too many feet to just be Sebastian any more. Hundreds of feet.

He cried out as he the heel of a rugby cleat ground into one of his ankles, twisting away at the skin until he was sure there would be none left, and then again when pain spiraled outward from a point in his spine. He curled in on himself, taking the fetal position to try and sheild anything he could, when suddenly it all stopped.

The feet were gone, and there were voices from somewhere above him. Sherlock didn't move. He stayed curled up on the ground, shivering slightly from the pain and with the struggle to breathe properly. He could hear someone shouting, or maybe they were just talking. It all sounded like the same Volume to Sherlock, words slurring together, sounding worlds away from him.

_"He's had enough, Seb- Who are you to say when he's had enough?- God, look at him- Shut up Anderson- No, I won't shut up. You're going too far- Anderson, I swear to god, get out of my way- Or what? Going to hit me too?- I might..."_

The words grew further and further away, meaning slipping away from them and just turning to a jumble of syllables, and then he couldn't hear anything at all. Some distant part of Sherlock's mind registered that he was going under. That this was very bad, and that he shouldn't let his eyes close, but weren't they closed already? Everything was dark, and there was no part of his body which wasn't throbbing in pain. He wasn't even shivering any more, and god, he didn't think he'd ever been so tired in his life... 

There was suddenly a pressure against the side of his head, and somehow he was able to recognize what it was pressing his face further into the cement. He didn't move, he didn't try to open his eyes, barely even bothered to breathe as the pressed grew. He wasn't sure exactly what was happening, he was just sure he wanted to sleep, to not be able to feel any of this an more, when all of a sudden his mind was made up for him. A blinding pain burst at the back of his skull as Sebastian kicked him with all the force of a rugby captain, and then there was nothing. His body went limp against the ground as he finally, finally,  fell into darkness.

 

*  *  *

 

 

_**John, It’s Anderson. Please answer.** _

 

 

 

_Anderson? Why the hell do you have Sherlock’s phone? JW_

 

 

 

_**I can explain later, but you need to come to the library. Now.** _

 

 

 

_What’s going on? JW_

 

 

 

_**Sherlock’s hurt. I’m so sorry- I don’t know what to do. I can’t get him to wake up.** _

 

 

 

_Oh my god. Fuck, I’m on my way. JW_   
_You better get ready to explain to me what the hell happened to him. Don’t you dare leave him. JW_

 

 

_**Don’t worry, I’m not. Just hurry up, John.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, I hate hurting Sherlock like that. It pains me...
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Sorry if you hate me now <333


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